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High noon at Talbot’s Cross-roads, with the mercurystanding at ninety-eight in the shade—though there wasnot much shade worth mentioning in the immediate vicinityof the Cross-roads post-office, about which, upon the occasionreferred to, the few human beings within sight and soundwere congregated. There were trees enough a few hundredyards away, but the post-office stood boldly and unflinchinglyin the blazing sun. The roads crossing each other stretchedthemselves as far as the eye could follow them, the red claytransformed into red dust which even an ordinarily livelyimagination might have fancied was red hot. The shrill,rattling cry of the grasshoppers, hidden in the long yellowsedge-grass and drouth-smitten corn, pierced the stillnessnow and then with a suddenness startling each time it brokeforth, because the interval between each of the pipings wasgiven by the hearers to drowsiness or heated unconsciousnaps.

In such napping and drowsiness the present occupantsof the post-office were indulging. Upon two empty goodsboxes two men in copperas-coloured jean garments reclinedin easy attitudes, their hats tilted over their eyes, while several2others balanced their split-seated chairs against thehouse or the post-porch and dozed.

Inside the store the postmaster and proprietor tilted hischair against the counter and dozed also, though fitfully, andwith occasional restless changes of position and smotheredmaledictions against the heat. He was scarcely the build ofman to sleep comfortably at high noon in midsummer. Hishuge, heavy body was rather too much for him at any time,but during the hot weather he succumbed beneath the weightof his own flesh. Hamlin County knew him as “Big TomD’Willerby,” and, indeed, rather prided itself upon him asa creditable possession. It noted any increase in his weight,repeated his jokes, and bore itself patiently under his satire.His indolence it regarded with leniency not entirely untingedwith secret exultation.

“The derndest, laziest critter,” his acquaintances wouldremark to each other; “thederndest I do reckon that everthe Lord made. Nigh unto three hundred he weighs, andnever done a lick o’ work in his life. Not one! Lord, no!Tom D’Willerby work? I guess not. He gits on fine withoutany o’ that in his’n. Work ain’t his kind. It’s a pleasin’sight to see him lyin’ round thar to the post-office an’ theboys a-waitin’ on to him, doin’ his tradin’ for him, an’ sortin’the mail when it comes in. They’re ready enough to do itjest to hear him gas.”

And so they were. About eight years before the time thepresent story commences, he had appeared upon the sceneapparently having no object in view but to make himselfas comfortable as possible. He took up his quarters at oneof the farm-houses among the mountains, paid his hostessregularly for the simple accommodations she could affordhim, and, before three months passed, had established his3reputation and, without making the slightest apparent effort,had gathered about him a large circle of friends and admirers.

“His name’s D’Willerby,” Mrs. Pike would drawl whenquestioned about him, “an’ he’s kin to them D’Willerbysthat’s sich big bugs down to D’Lileville. I guess they ain’tmuch friendly, though. He don’t seem to like to have nothin’much to say about ’em. Seems like he has money a-plentyto carry him along, an’ he talks some o’ settin’ up a storesomewhars.”

In the course of a month or so he carried out the plan,selecting Talbot’s Cross-roads as the site for the store inquestion. He engaged hands to erect a frame building,collected by the assistance of some mysterious agency aheterogeneous stock consisting of calicoes, tinware, coffee,sugar, tobacco, and various waif and stray commodities, and,having done so, took his seat on the porch one morning andannounced the establishment open.

Upon the whole, the enterprise was a success. Barnesvillewas fifteen miles distant, and the farmers, their wives anddaughters, were glad enough to stop at the Cross-roads fortheir calico dresses and store-coffee. By doing so they weresaved a long ride and gained superior conversational advantages.“D’Willerby’s mighty easy to trade with,” it wassaid.

There was always a goodly number of “critters” tied tothe fence-corners, and consequently to business was addedthe zest of society and the interchanging of gossip. “D’Willerby’s”became a centre of interest and attraction, andD’Willerby himself a county institution.

Big Tom, however, studiously avoided taking a too activepart in the duties of the establishment. Having with greatforethought provided himself with a stout chair which could4be moved from behind the counter to the door, and fromthe door to the store as the weather demanded, he devotedhimself almost exclusively to sitting in it and encouraginga friendly and accommodating spirit in his visitors and admirers.The more youthful of those admirers he found usefulin the extreme.

“Boys,” he would say, “a man can’t do more than athousand things at once. A man can’t talk a steady streamand do himself justice, and settle the heftiest kind of questions,and say the kind of things these ladies ought to havesaid to ’em, and then measure out molasses and weigh coffeeand slash off calico dresses and trade for eggs. Some ofyou’ve got to roust out and do some clerking, or I’ve gotto quit. I’ve not got the constitution to stand it. Jim, you’tend to Mis’ Pike, and Bill, you wait on Mis’ Jones. Lord!Lord! half a dozen of you here, and not one doing a thing—nota derned thing! Do you want me to get up and leaveMiss Mirandy and do things myself? We’ve got to settleabout the colour of this gown. How’d you feel now, if itwasn’t becoming to her complexion? Just help yourselfto that plug of tobacco, Hance, and lay your ten cents inthe cash drawer, and then you can weigh out that butter ofMis’ Simpson’s.”

When there was a prospect of a post-office at the Cross-roads,there was only one opinion as to who was the man bestcalculated to adorn the position of postmaster.

“The store’s right yere, Tom,” said his patrons, “an’you’re right yere. Ye can write and spell off things ’thoutany trouble, an’ I reckon ye wouldn’t mind the extry twodollars comin’ in ev’ry month.”

“Lord! Lord!” groaned Tom, who was stretched fulllength on the floor of the porch when the subject was first5broached. “Do you want a man to kill himself out an’ out,boys? Work himself into eternal kingdom come? Who’ddo the extra work, I’d like to know—empty out the mail-bagand hand out the mail, and do the extra cussin’? Thatwould be worth ten dollars a month. And, like as not, themoney would be paid in cheques, and who’s goin’ to sign’em? Lord! I believe you think a man’s immortal soulcould be bought for fifty cents a day. You don’t allow forthe wear and tear on a fellow’s constitution, boys.”

But he allowed himself to be placed in receipt of theofficial salary in question, and the matter of extra laboursettled itself. Twice a week a boy on horseback broughtthe mail-bag from Barnesville, and when this youth drewrein before the porch Big Tom greeted him from indoorswith his habitual cordiality.

“’Light, sonny, ’light!” he would call out in languidlysonorous tones; “come in and let these fellows hear thenews. Just throw that mail-bag on the counter and let’shear from you. Plenty of good water down at the spring.Might as well take that bucket and fill it if you want a drink.I’ve been waiting for just such a man as you to do it. Thesefellows would sit here all day and let a man die. I can’t getanything out of ’em. I’ve about half a mind to quit sometimesand leave them to engineer the thing themselves. Lookhere now, is any fellow going to attend to that mail, or isit going to lie there till I have to get up and attend toit myself? I reckon that’s what you want. I reckon that’djust suit you. Jehoshaphat! I guess you’d like me to takecharge of the eternal universe.”

It was for the mail he waited with his usual complementof friends and assistants on the afternoon referred to at theopening of this chapter. The boy was behind time, and,6under the influence of the heat, conversation had at firstflagged and then subsided. Big Tom himself had takenthe initiative of dropping into a doze, and his companionshad one by one followed his example, or at least made aneffort at doing so. The only one of the number who remainedunmistakably awake was a little man who sat onthe floor of the end of the porch, his small legs, encasedin large blue jean pantaloons, dangling over the side. Thislittle man, who was gently and continuously ruminating,with brief “asides” of expectoration, kept his eyes fixedwatchfully upon the Barnesville Road, and he it was whoat last roused the dozers.

“Thar’s some un a-comin’,” he announced in a meek voice.“’Tain’t him.”

Big Tom opened his eyes, stretched himself, and graduallyrose in his might, proving a very tight fit for the establishment,especially the doorway, towards which he lounged,supporting himself against its side.

“Who is it, Ezra?” he asked, almost extinguishing thelatter cognomen with a yawn.

All the other men awakened in a body. Whomsoever theindividual might be, he had the power to rouse them toa lively exhibition of interest. One and all braced themselvesto look at the horseman approaching along the BarnesvilleRoad.

“Well, at a distance of half a mile, perhaps he is,” saidTom. “In a cloud of dust and the sun blazin’ down on himlike thunderation, I don’t know but you’re right, Nath.”

“Git out!” replied Nath, placidly. “He’s a curi’s-actin’7feller, anyway. Don’t go nowhar nor hev nothin’ to sayto nobody. Jest sets right down in that thar holler withhis wife, as if b’ars an’ painters wus all a man or womanwanted round ’em.”

“She’s a doggoned purty critter,” said the little man inlarge trousers, placidly. He had not appeared to listen tothe conversation, but, as this pertinent remark proved, ithad not been lost on him.

His observation was greeted with a general laugh, whichseemed to imply that the speaker had a character which hisspeech sustained.

The little man remained unmoved, still dangling his legsover the porch side, still ruminating, still gazing with pale,blinking eyes up the road.

“Went over the mountain to ’tend court to Bakersville,an’ took it on my road to go by thar. She was settin’ inthe door, an’ I see her afore she seen me. When she hearnthe sound of my mule’s feet, she got up an’ went into thehouse. It was a powerful hot mornin’, ‘n’ I wus mighty dry,‘n’ I stopped fur a cool drink. She didn’t come out whenfust I hollered, ‘n’ when she did come, she looked kinderskeered ‘n’ wouldn’t talk none. Kep’ her sunbonnet overher face, like she didn’t want to be seen overmuch.”

“Don’t look like none o’ the women folk about yere,” hereplied, finally. “She ain’t their kind.”

“Dunno eggsactly. She’s mighty white ‘n’ young-lookin’‘n’ delicate—but that ain’t all.”8

“Look here, boys,” he broke in, suddenly, “here’s a nicebusiness—a lot of fellows asking questions about a womanan’ gossiping as if there wasn’t a thing better to do. Leave’em alone, if they want to be left alone—leave ’em alone.”

Mr. Stamps expectorated in an entirely unbiased manner.He seemed as willing to leave his story alone as he had beento begin it.

“He’s comin’ yere,” he said, softly, after a pause. “Thet’swhar he’s comin’.”

The rest of the company straightened themselves in theirseats and made an effort to assume the appearance of slightlyinterested spectators. It became evident that Mr. Stampswas right, and that the rider was about to dismount.

He was a man about thirty years of age, thin, narrow-chested,and stooping. His coarse clothes seemed speciallyill-suited to his slender figure, his black hair was long, andhis beard neglected; his broad hat was pulled low over hiseyes and partially concealed his face.

“He don’t look none too sociable when he’s nigher thanhalf a mile,” remarked Nath in an undertone.

He glanced neither to the right nor to the left as he strodepast the group into the store. Strange to relate, Tom hadlounged behind the counter and stood ready to attend him.He asked for a few necessary household trifles in a low tone,and, as Tom collected and made them into a clumsy package,he stood and looked on with his back turned towards thedoor.

Those gathered upon the porch listened eagerly for thesound of conversation, but none reached their ears. Tommoved heavily to and fro for a few minutes, and then theparcel was handed across the counter.9

And his customer took his departure. He passed out ashe had passed in; but while he was indoors little Mr. Stampshad changed his position. He now sat near the wooden steps,his legs dangling as before, his small countenance as noncommittalas ever. As the stranger neared him, he raisedhis pale little eyes, blinked them, indulged in a slight jerkof the head, and uttered a single word of greeting.

The stranger started, glanced down at him, and walked on.He made no answer, untied his horse, mounted it, and rodeback over the Barnesville Road towards the mountain.

Mr. Stamps remained seated near the steps and blinkedafter him silently until he was out of sight.

“Ye didn’t seem to talk none, D’Willerby,” said one ofthe outsiders when Tom reappeared.

Tom sank into his chair, thrust his hands into his pockets,and stretched his limbs out to their fullest capacity.

He was silent for some time afterwards, and even on thearrival of the mail was less discursive than usual. It wasMr. Stamps who finally aroused him from his reverie.

Having obtained his mail—one letter in a legal-lookingenvelope—and made all other preparations to return to thebosom of his family, Stamps sidled up to the counter, and,leaning over it, spoke in an insinuatingly low tone:

“She was bar’foot,” he said, mildly, “‘n’ she hadn’t beenraised to it—that was one thing. Her feet wus as soft ‘n’tender as a baby’s; ‘n’ fur another thing, her hands wus10as white as her face, ‘n’ whiter. Thet ain’t the way we raise’em in Hamlin County—that’s all.”

And, having said it, he slipped out of the store, mountedhis mule, and jogged homeward on the Barnesville Roadalso.

Before the war there were no people better known ormore prominent in their portion of the State than the DeWilloughbys of Delisle County, Tennessee. To have beenborn a De Willoughby was, in general opinion, to have beenborn with a silver spoon in one’s mouth. It was indeed tohave been born to social dignity, fortune, courage, and morethan the usual allowance of good looks. And though thefortune was lavishly spent, the courage sometimes betrayedinto a rather theatrical dare-deviltry, and the good looksprone to deteriorate in style, there was always the social positionleft, and this was a matter of the deepest importancein Delisleville. The sentiments of Delisleville were purelypatrician. It was the county town, and contained six thousandinhabitants, two hotels, and a court-house. It had alsotwo or three business streets and half a dozen churches, allvery much at odds with each other and each seriously inclinedto disbelieve in the probable salvation of the rest.The “first families” (of which there were eight or ten, withnumerous branches) attended the Episcopal Church, the secondbest the Presbyterian, while the inferior classes, whocould scarcely be counted at all, since they had not beenborn in Delisleville, drifted to the Methodists.

The De Willoughbys attended the Episcopal Church, and,being generally endowed with voices, two or three of themsang in the choir, which was composed entirely of members12of the attending families and executed most difficult musicin a manner which was the cause after each service of muchdivided opinion. Opinion was divided because the choir wasdivided—separated, in fact, into several small, select cliques,each engaged in deadly and bitter feud with the rest. Whenthe moon-eyed soprano arose, with a gentle flutter, andopened her charming mouth in solo, her friends settledthemselves in their pews with a general rustle of satisfaction,while the friends of the contralto exchanged civilly significantglances; and on the way home the solo in question wasdisposed of in a manner at once thorough and final. Thesame thing occurred when the contralto was prominent, orthe tenor, or the baritone, or the basso, each of whom it wasconfidently asserted by competent Delisleville judges mighthave rendered him or herself and Delisleville immortalupon the lyric stage if social position had not placed thefollowing of such a profession entirely out of the question.There had indeed been some slight trouble in one or twoof the best families, occasioned by the musical fervour ofyouthful scions who were in danger of being led into indiscretionsby their enthusiasm.

The De Willoughbys occupied one of the most prominentpews in the sacred edifice referred to. Judge De Willoughby,a large, commanding figure, with a fine sweep of long hair,mustache and aquiline profile; Mrs. De Willoughby (whohad been a Miss Vanuxem of South Carolina), slender, willowy,with faded brunette complexion and still handsomebrunette eyes, and three or four little De Willoughbys, allmore or less pretty and picturesque. These nearly filled thepew. The grown-up Misses De Willoughby sang with twoof their brothers in the choir. There were three sons, Romaine,De Courcy, and Thomas. But Thomas did not sing13in the choir. Thomas, alas! did not sing at all. Thomas,it was universally conceded by every De Willoughby of theclan, was a dismal failure. Even from his earliest boyhood,when he had been a huge, overgrown fellow, whose onlyredeeming qualities were his imperturbable good-humor andhis ponderous wit, his family had regarded him with a senseof despair. In the first place, he was too big. His brotherswere tall, lithe-limbed youths, who were graceful, dark-eyed,dark-haired, and had a general air of brilliancy. They figuredwell at college and in their world; they sang and dancedin a manner which, combining itself with the name of DeWilloughby, gave them quite an ennobled sort of distinction,a touch of patrician bravado added to their picturesquenessin the eyes of the admiring; and their little indiscretionswere of a nature to be ignored or treated with gentle considerationas the natural result of their youth, spirit, andSouthern blood. But at nineteen Thomas had attained aheight of six feet five, with a proportionate breadth andponderousness. His hands and feet were a disgrace to a DeWilloughby, and his voice was a roar when he was influencedby anything like emotion. Displays of emotion, however,were but rare occurrences with him. He was too lazy to beroused to anger or any other violent feeling. He spent hisleisure hours in lying upon sofas or chairs and getting verymuch in everybody’s way. He lounged through school andcollege without the slightestéclat attending his progress.

It became the pastime of the household to make rathera butt of him, and for the most part he bore himself underthe difficulties of his position peaceably enough, thoughthere had been times when his weighty retorts had causedsome sharp wincing.

“You’re an ill-natured devil, Tom,” his brother De14Courcy said to him, as he stood fingering the ornamentson the mantel after one such encounter. “You’re an ill-natureddevil.”

Tom was stretched on a sofa, with his big hands underhis head, and did not condescend to look around.

“I’m not such a thundering fool as you take me for, that’sall,” he answered. “I’ve got my eyes open. Keep to yourside of the street, and I will keep to mine.”

It was true that he had his eyes open and had more witand feeling than they gave him credit for. No one understoodhim, not even his mother, who had deplored him fromthe first hour of his overweighted babyhood, when she hadgiven him over to the care of his negro nurse in despair.

In the midst of a large family occupied with all the smallgaieties attendant upon popularity and social distinction ina provincial town, he lived a lonely life, and one not withoutits pathetic side if it had been so looked upon. But evenhe himself had never regarded the matter from a sentimentalpoint of view. He endeavoured to resign himself to his fateand meet it philosophically.

“I wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing, boys,” he hadsaid to his friends at college, where he had been rather popular.“I wasn’t cut out for it. Go ahead and leave mebehind. I’m not a bad sort of fellow, but there is too muchof me in one way and too little in another. What the Lordmade such a man as me for after six thousand years’ experience,I haven’t found out yet. A man may as well make uphis mind about himself first as last. I’ve made up mine andnobody differs from me so far as I’ve gone.”

When he left college his brothers had already chosen theirvocations. Delisle County knew them as promising younglawyers, each having distinguished himself with much fiery15eloquence in an occasional case. The cases had not alwaysbeen gained, but the fervour and poetry of the appeals tothe rather muddled and startled agriculturists who formedthe juries were remembered with admiration and as beingworthy of Delisleville, and were commented upon in theDelislevilleOriflamme as the “fit echoings of an eloquencelong known in our midst as the birthright of those bearingone of our proudest names, an eloquence spurred to its eagleflights by the warm, chivalric blood of a noble race.”

But the “warm, chivalric blood” of the race in questionseemed to move but slowly in veins of its most substantialrepresentative. The inertness of his youngest son rousedthat fine old Southern gentleman and well-known legal dignitary,Judge De Willoughby, to occasional outbursts of thefiery eloquence before referred to which might well havebeen productive of remarkable results.

“Good God, sir!” he would trumpet forth, “good God,sir! have we led the State for generation after generationto be disgraced and degraded and dragged in the dust byone of our own stock at last? The De Willoughbys havebeen gentlemen, sir, distinguished at the bar, in politics,and in the highest social circles of the South; and here wehave a De Willoughby whose tastes would be no credit to—tohis overseer, a De Willoughby who has apparently neitherthe ambition nor the qualification to shine in the sphere inwhich he was born! Blow your damned brains out, if youhave any; blow your damned brains out, and let’s have anend of the whole disgraceful business.”

This referred specially to Tom’s unwillingness to enterupon the study of medicine, which had been chosen forhim.

“I should make a better farmer,” he said, bitterly, after16a prolonged discussion. “I’m not the build for women’sbedrooms and children’s bedsides. De Courcy would havesuited you better.”

“De Courcy is a gentleman—a gentleman, sir! He wasborn one and would shine in any profession a gentlemanmay adorn. As for you, this is the only thing left for you,and you shall try it, by G——!”

“Oh,” said Tom, “I’ll try it. I can only fail, and I’vedone that before.”

He did try it forthwith, applying himself to his studieswith a persistence quite creditable. He read lying uponsofas and lounging in the piazzas, and in course of time wassent to attend lectures in Philadelphia.

Whether he could have gained his diploma or not wasnever decided. Those of the professors who commented onhim at all, spoke of him as slow but persevering, and regardedhim rather as a huge receiving machine of orderlyhabits. The Judge began to congratulate himself upon hisdetermination, and his mother thought it “a good thingpoor Tom was disposed of.”

But one terrible morning just before the first course oflectures was completed, he suddenly returned, walking intothe Judge’s office without any previous intimation of hisintention.

“Yes,” said Tom, “I’ve come back.” He was rather paleand nervous, but there was a dogged, resigned look in hiseyes. “I’ve made up my mind,” he added, “that I cannotstand it. Turn me loose on one of your plantations to—toboss niggers. You said once I was fit for an overseer.17Perhaps you weren’t wrong. Say the word and I’ll startto-morrow.”

The Judge’s aquiline countenance turned gray with fury.His fine mustache seemed to curl itself anew.

“You—you accursed scoundrel!” he gasped. “You accursed,underbred hound! Tell me what this means, or I’llstrangle you.”

“You’ll say I’m a fool,” said Tom, “and I suppose it’strue, and—and——” with a tremour in his voice, “I’ve noneed to be particular about the names you call me. I oughtto be used to them by this time.”

“Speak out,” thundered the Judge, “and tell me thewhole disgraceful truth!”

“It won’t take long,” said Tom; “I told it when I saidI’d made up my mind I couldn’t stand it. I’ve been walkingthe hospitals and attending the clinics for the last threemonths, and I’ve had a chance to see what my life wouldbe if I went through. I’ve seen things to make a mantremble when they came back to him in the dead of night—agonyand horror—women and children! Good Lord! Ican’t tell you. De Courcy could, but I can’t. I’d ratherbe in hell than live such a life day after day. I tried tostand up against it at first. I thought I might get used toit, but I haven’t the nerve—or something was wrong. Itgot worse and worse, until I used to start up out of my sleepin a cold sweat, hearing screams and groans and prayers.That was the worst of all—their prayers to us to help themand not to hurt them. Four days ago a child was broughtin—a child four or five years old. There was an operationto be performed, and I was the man chosen to hold it still.Its mother was sent out of the room. My God! how itscreamed when it saw her go and knew it was to be left18to us. They told me to hold it because I was the strongest,and—and I put my hands on it. I’m a big fellow to lookat, and I suppose it knew there was no help for it whenI came near. It turned as white as death and looked upat me with the tears streaming down its face. Before theoperation was half over it hadn’t the strength left to screamor struggle, and it lay and looked at me and moaned. Ishould have given up the job, but somehow I couldn’t makeup my mind to—to leave it. When it was all done, I gaveit back to its mother and went to my rooms. I turned sickon the way and had to sit down to rest. I swore then I’dlet the thing drop, and I bought my ticket and came back.I’m not the man for the work. Better men may do it—perhapsit takes better men. I’m not up to it.” And hisshaken voice broke as he hung his great head.

“Go home to your mother, sir,” he said, “I’ve done withyou. Go and stay with the women. That’s the place foryou.”

“He’s a coward as well as a fool,” he said afterwards inthe bosom of his family; “a white-livered fool who hasn’tthe nerve to look at a sick child.”

It was a terrible day for the household, but at last it wasover. Tom went to his room in an apathy. He had beenbuffeted and scorned and held up to bitter derision untilhe had ceased to feel anything but a negative, helpless misery.

About a week later Delia Vanuxem appeared upon thescene. Delia Vanuxem was a young cousin of Mrs. DeWilloughby’s, and had come to pay her relatives a visit.It was the hospitable custom of Delisleville to cultivate its19kinsfolk—more especially its kinswomen. There were alwaysin two or three of the principal families young ladyguests who were during their stay in the town the sensationof the hour. Novelty established them as temporarybelles; they were petted by their hostesses, attended bysmall cohorts of admirers, and formed the centre fora round of festivities specially arranged to enliven theirvisits.

Delia Vanuxem bore away the palm from all such visitorspast or to come. She was a true Southern beauty, with thelargest dark eyes, the prettiest yielding manner, and thevery smallest foot Delisleville had ever fallen prostrate before,it being well known among her admirers that one ofher numerous male cousins had once measured her littleslipper with a cigar—a story in which Delisleville delighted.And she was not only a pretty, but also a lovable and tender-heartedyoung creature. Her soft eyes end soft voice didnot belie her. She was gentle and kindly to all around her.Mrs. De Willoughby and the two older girls fell in love withher at once, and the Judge himself was aroused to an eloquenceof compliment and a courtly grandeur of demeanourwhich rose even beyond his usual efforts in a line in whichhe had always shone. The very negroes adored her and viedwith each other to do her service.

It was quite natural that a nature so sweet and sympatheticshould be awakened to pity for the one member ofthe gay household who seemed cut off from the rest, andwho certainly at the time existed under a darker cloud thanusual.

From the first she was more considerate of poor Tomthan anyone who had ever been before, and more than once,as he sat silent and gloomy at the table, he looked up to20find her lovely eyes resting upon his big frame with a questioning,pitying glance.

“He is so much too big, Aunt Jule,” she wrote home once.“And he seems somehow to feel as if he was always in theway, and, indeed, he is a little sometimes, poor fellow! andeveryone appears to think he is only a joke or a mistake;but I have made up my mind never to laugh at him at allas the other girls do. It seems so unkind, and surely hemust feel it.”

She never did laugh at him, and sometimes even tried totalk to him, and once drew him out so far in an artful, innocentway, that he told her something of his medical failureand the reasons for it, manifestly ashamed of the story ashe related it, and yet telling it so well in a few clumsy, ratherdisconnected sentences, that when he had finished her eyelasheswere wet and she broke into a little shuddering sigh.

“Oh!” she said, “I don’t think you are to blame, really.I have often thought that I could never, never bear to dosuch things, though, of course, if there was no one to dothem it would be dreadful; but——”

“Yes,” said Tom, “there it is. Someone must do it, andI know I’m a confounded coward and ninny, but—but Icouldn’t.” And he looked overwhelmed with humiliation.

“But after all,” she said, in the soft voice which hadalways the sound of appeal in it, “after all, I’m sure it wasbecause you have a kind heart, and a kind heart is wortha great deal. You will do something else.”

“There is nothing else for me to do,” he said, mournfully;“nothing that won’t disgrace the rest, they tell me.”

It was small wonder that this was his final undoing,though neither was to blame. Certainly no fault could beattached to the young creature who meant to be kind to him,21as it was her nature to be to all surrounding her; and surelyTom’s great and final blunder arose from no presumptionon his part. He had never thought of aspiring to the proudposition with regard to her which Romaine and De Courcyseemed to occupy by natural right. It was only now andthen, when they were unavoidably engaged, that he had thecourage to offer his services as messenger or escort, buteven those rare pleasures were a little too much for him.He was so unused to such privileges that they intoxicatedhim and set his mind in a whirl which prevented his thinkingclearly, or, indeed, ever thinking at all sometimes.

Even when it was all over, he scarcely knew how he hadbeen betrayed into the weakness he was guilty of. It wasnot like him to lose sight of his manifold imperfections;but for once they were swept out of his mind by a momentarymadness.

It was on the occasion of a ball at the Delisle House. TheDelisle House was the principal hotel, and all important festivitieswere held in its long dining-hall disguised as a ballroom.The ball was given by a gallant Delisleville Club inhonour of Miss Delia Vanuxem, and it was a very magnificentaffair indeed. The disguise of the dining-room wascomplete. It was draped with flags and decorated withwreaths of cedar and paper roses. A band of coloured gentlemen,whose ardour concealed any slight musical discrepancies,assisted the festivities, which—to quote theOriflammeof the next morning—“the wealth, beauty, and chivalry ofDelisleville combined to render unequalled in their gaietyand elegance, making the evening one of the most successfulof the piquant occasions

Usually Tom’s part in such festivities was to sit uncomfortablyin dull corners, taking up as little room as possible,or piloting his way carefully through the crowd to the supper-tablewith an elderly lady or a wall-flower clinging timidlyto his huge arm. But during this one evening he losthis equilibrium. Delia had been more than usually kindto him, perhaps because she saw his unhappy awkwardnessas he towered above everyone else and tried to avoid treadingupon his neighbours. She gave him such a pretty smileacross the room that he obeyed the impulse to go to her andstand at her side; then, when she left him to dance withDe Courcy, she gave him her fan and bouquet and fleecywhite wrap to hold, and somehow it seemed not unnaturalthat De Courcy should bring her back to him as to a sentinelwhen the dance was over. Thus it was as she sat, flusheda little and smiling, her face uplifted to his, while shethanked him for taking care of her possessions, that thewild thought which so betrayed him rushed into his brain.

It was so startling a request, that, though she was quickenough to conceal her surprise, she hesitated a second beforerecovering her breath to give him her answer.

“Yes, Tom, if you like,” she said, and glanced down ather programme. “The next is a waltz, and I can let youhave it because Dr. Ballentine has been called away. Doyou waltz?”

“I have learned,” he answered, rather huskily and tremulously.“I do it badly, of course, but I know the stepswell enough.”

He was so helpless with nervousness that he could scarcelyspeak, and his hands trembled when they stood up togetherand he laid his arm reverently about her waist.23

“I must be very little,” she said, “I never knew beforethat I was so little.”

He had thought he should recover himself when the musicand motion began, but he did not. He looked down at thedelicate head which reached barely to his beating heart, anda blur came before his sight; the light and the crowd ofdancers dazzled and confused him. The whirling movementmade him dizzy, and he had not expected to be dizzy. Hebegan suddenly to be conscious of his own immensity, theunusualness of his position, and of the fact that here andthere he saw a meaning smile; his heart beat faster still,and he knew he had been led into a mistake. He swunground and round too quickly for the music, missed a step,tried to recover himself, became entangled in his partner’sdress, trod on her poor little feet, and fell headlong onthe floor, dragging her with him and striking against apassing couple.

It was his brother De Courcy with whom he had comein such violent contact, and it was De Courcy who sprangto Delia’s rescue, assisting her to her feet with all possiblegrace, and covering her innocent confusion with a brilliantspeech, but not, however, before he had directed a terriblescowl at the prostrate culprit and sworn furiously at himunder his breath. But Delia was very good to him and didnot desert him in the hour of his need, giving him onlykind looks and managing to arrange that he should leadher to her seat as if he had not been in disgrace at all.

But the shame and pain of his downfall were sharperpangs than he had ever borne, and before the night washalf over he slipped away from the dangers and rushed24home to his own room, where he lay awake through thelong hours, cursing himself for his folly, and tossing ina fever of humiliation and grief.

In the morning when he came down to the breakfasttable, the family were already assembled, and the Judgehad heard the story from De Courcy, who told it all themore forcibly in the absence of Miss Vanuxem, who hadspent the night at the house of another relative.

“Trod on Miss Vanuxem’s dress and tore it off her backin the ballroom, did you?” he burst forth. “Made a foolof yourself and a bear-garden of the Delisle House ballroom!What were you trying to dance for? Leave thatto men who can manage their limbs, and don’t inflict yourselfon women who are too high-bred to refuse to dancewith a man who ought to be a gentleman. Stay at home,sir! Stay at home, and don’t make a disgraceful spectacleof yourself in public, particularly when there are lovelywomen present to witness your humiliation.”

It was the figurative last straw. Tom’s mind had beendark and gloomy enough to begin with, but when duringhis father’s harangue he glanced up and saw De Courcybending his aquiline face over his paper with a slightlysardonic smile, he could stand no more.

To the utter dumfounding of his mother and sisters,and even the irate Judge himself, he pushed his chair backand sprang to his feet with an actual roar of rage andpain. His great body seemed to swell until its size overwhelmedthem; his eyes blazed, he shook his tremendousfist.

“Leave me alone!” he shouted, “leave me alone! Yes,25I did make a fool of myself! Yes, I did knock a womandown and tear her dress and look like an ass and set thewhole room laughing at me, women and all—the best-bredand sweetest of them! It’s all true, every word of it, andmore too—more too! And that’s not enough, but my ownfather serves it up again, and you fellows sit there and grinover it to make it worse. That’s right, pitch in, all of you,and drive me mad and put an end to it.”

He upset his chair and a small negro boy with a plate ofwaffles, and, striding over the scattered ruins, dashed outof the room with tears of fury in his eyes.

It was the turning-point of his existence. He made hisbitter resolve as he walked out of the house down thestreet. Early as it was, he went straight to Delia, and whenhe found himself alone with her, poured forth all themisery of his sore heart.

“If I had been born a clod-hopper it would have beenbetter for me,” he said. “I have no place here among menwith decently shaped bodies and clear heads. I’m a greatclumsy fool, and there’s no help for it. If I’d had morebrain, I might have managed the rest; but I’m a dullardtoo. They may well sneer at me. I think I will go awayand bury myself somewhere among the people I ought tohave lived among by rights. In some simple country placeI might find those who know less than I do, and forget therest; and perhaps be content enough in time. I shallnever marry. I—I suppose you know that, Delia.” Andhe took her little hand and laid it on his own open palmand sat silent a moment looking at it, and at last suddenlya great drop fell upon it which made them both start. Hedid not look up at her, but took out his big white handkerchiefand wiped the drop gently away and then stooped26and kissed the spot where it had fallen. Her own lasheswere wet when their eyes met afterwards, and she spoke ina subdued voice.

“I have always liked you very much, Cousin Tom,” shesaid; “you mustn’t talk of going away. We should missyou much more than you think. I know I should be verysorry.”

His heart bounded as if it would burst his side. He knewwhat she meant in an instant, though he had never suspectedit before.

“Oh! Oh!” he groaned. “Oh, Delia! which—whichof them is it? It’s De Courcy, I could swear. It’s DeCourcy!”

“I knew it was De Courcy,” he cried. “He was alwaysthe kind of fellow to win. I suppose he deserves it. TheLord knows I hope he does, for your sake. Of course it’sDe Courcy. Who else?”

He did not stay long after this, and when he went awayhe wrung her hand in his in a desperate farewell.

“This is another reason for my going now,” he said;“I couldn’t stay. This—is—good-bye, Delia.”

He went home and had a prolonged interview with hisfather. It was not an agreeable interview to recur tomentally in after time, but in the end Tom gained his27point, and a portion of his future patrimony was handedover to him.

“I shall be no further trouble to you,” he said. “Youmayn’t ever hear of me again. This is the end of me as faras you are concerned.”

That night, with a valise in his hand, he took his placein the stage running towards the mountain regions ofNorth Carolina, and from that day forward the place knewhim no more. It was as he had known it would be: no onewas very sorry to be rid of him, and even Delia’s sadnesswas at length toned down by the excitement of preparationfor and the festivities attendant upon her triumphantunion with the most dashing De Willoughby of the flock.

When this event occurred, Tom’s wanderings had endedtemporarily in the farm-house referred to in the first chapter,and his appearance in this remote and usually undisturbedportion of his country had created some sensation.The news of the arrival of a stranger had spread itselfabroad and aroused a slow-growing excitement.

They were a kindly, simple people who surrounded him—hospitable,ignorant, and curious beyond measure concerningthe ways of the outside world of which they knewso little.

In the course of time, as the first keenness of his miserywore away, Tom began to discover the advantages of thechange he had made. He no longer need contrast himselfunfavourably with his neighbours. He knew more thanthey, and they found nothing in him to condemn or jeer at.To them he was a mine of worldly knowledge. He amusedthem and won their hearts. His natural indolence andlack of active ambition helped the healing of his wounds,perhaps; and then he began to appreciate the humourous28side of his position and his old tendency to ponderous jokingcame back, and assisted him to win a greater popularitythan any mere practical quality could have done.

The novelty of hisrôle was its chief attraction. He beganto enjoy and give himself up to it, and make the mostof his few gifts. Life was no longer without zest. Hisnatural indolence increased with the size of his great bodyas the years passed, and his slow whimsical humour becamehis strongest characteristic. He felt it a fine point in thesarcasm of his destiny that he should at last have becomea hero and be regarded with admiration for his conversationalabilities, but he bore his honours discreetly, andfound both moral and physical comfort in them.

He insensibly adopted the habits of his neighbours; hedressed with their primitive regard for ease; he droppednow and then into their slurring speech, and adopted oneby one their arcadian customs.

Whether the change was the better or the worse for himmight easily be a matter of opinion, and depend entirely onthe standpoint from which it was viewed. At least helived harmlessly and had no enemy.

And so existence stood with him when the second greatchange in his life took place.

Scarcely a month before the events described in theopening chapter took place, the stranger and a youngwoman, who was his companion, had appeared in the community.There was little that seemed mysterious aboutthem at the outset. A long, uninhabited cabin, a score orso of yards from the mountain road, had been roughlypatched up and taken possession of by them. There wasnothing unusual in the circumstance except that they hadappeared suddenly and entirely unheralded; but this initself would have awakened no special comment. Themystery developed itself from their after reserve and seclusion.They guarded themselves from all advances bykeeping out of sight when anyone approached their cabin.The young woman was rarely, if ever, seen. The mannever called at the post-office for mail, and upon the fewoccasions on which a stray human being crossed his path,his manner was such as by no means encouraged the curious.Mr. Stamps was the only individual who had seenthe woman face to face. There was an unmoved pertinacityin the character of Mr. Stamps which stood him in goodstead upon all occasions. He was not easily abashed orrebuffed, the more especially when he held in view somepractical object. Possibly he held some such object inview when he rode up to the tumbled down gateway andasked for the draught of water no woman of the regioncould refuse without some reasonable excuse.30

“’Tain’t airs they’re puttin’ on, Cindy,” he said to thepartner of his joys and sorrows the evening after his rideover the mountain. “Oh, no, ’tain’t airs, it’s somethin’more curi’s than that!” And he bent over the fire in acomfortable lounging way, rubbing his hands a little, andblinked at the back log thoughtfully.

They were a friendly and sociable people, these mountaineers,all the more so because the opportunities for meetingsociably were limited. The men had their work andthe women their always large families to attend to, andwith a mile or so of rough road between themselves andtheir neighbours, there was not much chance for enjoyablegossip. When good fortune threw them togetherthey usually made the best of their time. Consequently,the mystery of two human beings, who had shut themselvesoff with apparent intent from all intercourse with theirkind, was a difficulty not readily disposed of. It was, perhaps,little to be wondered at that Mr. Stamps thought itover and gathered carefully together all the points presentingthemselves to his notice. The subject had been frequentlydiscussed at the Cross-roads post-office. The dispositionto seclusion was generally spoken of as “curi’sness,”and various theories had been advanced with a viewto explaining the “curi’sness” in question. “Airs” hadbeen suggested as a solution of the difficulty, but as timeprogressed, the theory of “airs” had been abandoned.

“Fur,” said Uncle Jake Wooten, who was a patriarchand an authority, “when a man’s a-gwine to put on airs, hekinder slicks up more. A man that’s airy, he ain’t a-gwineto shut hisself up and not show out more. Like as nothe’d wear store-clothes an’ hang round ‘n’ kinder blow;‘n’ this feller don’t do nary one. ‘N’ as to the woman, Lord!31I should think all you’unses knows how womenfolks doesthat’s airy. Ef this yere one wus that way, she’d be a-dressin’in starched calikers ‘n’ sunbonnets ‘n’ bress-pins,‘n’ mebbe rings ‘n’ congrist-gaiters. She’d be to the meetin’every time there was meetin’ a-showin’ out ‘n’ lettin’on like she didn’t know the rest on ’em wus seein’. Itdon’t sound to reason that either on ’em is airy.”

It had been suggested by a bold spirit capable of moreextended flights of the imagination than the rest, that theywere “Northerners” who for some unworthy object hadtaken up their abode within the bound of civilisation; butthis idea was frowned down as being of a wild nature andnot to be encouraged.

Finally the general interest in the subject had subsidedsomewhat, though it was ready to revive at any new commentor incident, which will explain the bodily awakeningof the sleepers on the post-office porch when Mr. Stampsmade his announcement of the approach of “thet tharfeller.”

Up to the moment when the impulse seized him whichled him to take his place behind the counter as the strangerentered the store, Tom De Willoughby had taken little orno part in numerous discussions held around him. He hadlistened with impartiality to all sides of the question, hisportion of the entertainment being to make comments ofan inspiriting nature which should express in a markedmanner his sarcastic approval of any special weakness ina line of argument.

Among the many agreeable things said of him in hispast, it had never been said that he was curious; he wastoo indolent to be curious, and it may be simply assertedthat he had felt little curiosity concerning the popular32mystery. But when he found himself face to face with hiscustomer, a new feeling suddenly took possession of him.The change came when, for one instant, the man, as if inmomentary forgetfulness, looked up and met his eyes inspeaking. Each moved involuntarily, and Tom turnedaside, ostensibly, to pick up a sheet of wrapping paper.The only words exchanged were those relating to the courtesiesand the brief remarks heard by the loungers outside.After this the stranger rode away and Tom lounged backto his chair. He made no reply to Stamps’s explanatoryaside, and no comment upon the remarks of the companywhose curiosity had naturally received a new impetus whichspurred them on to gossip a little in the usual vague manner.He gave himself up to speculation. The mere tone ofa man’s voice had set his mind to work. His past life hadgiven him experience in which those about him were lacking,and at the instant he heard the stranger speak thisexperience revealed to him as by a flash of light, a thingwhich had never yet been even remotely guessed at.

“A gentleman, by thunder!” he said to himself.“That’s it! A gentleman!”

He knew he could not be mistaken. Low and purposelymuffled as the voice had been, he recognised in it thatwhich marked it as the voice of a man trained to modulatedspeech. And even this was not all, though it had led himto look again, and more closely, at the face shadowed bythe broad hat. It was not a handsome face, but it was onenot likely to be readily forgotten. It was worn and haggard,the features strongly aquiline, the eyes somewhatsunken; it was the face of a man who had lived the life ofan ascetic and who, with a capacity for sharp suffering,had suffered and was suffering still.33

“But a gentleman and not a Southerner,” Tom persistedto himself. “A Yankee, as I’m a sinner; and what is aYankee doing hiding himself here for?”

It was such a startling thing under the circumstances,that he could not rid himself of the thought of it. Ithaunted him through the rest of the day, and when nightcame and the store being closed, he retired as usual to theback part of the house, he was brooding over it still.

He lived in a simple and primitive style. Three roomsbuilt on to the store were quite enough for him. One washis sitting- and bedroom, another his dining-room andkitchen, the third the private apartment of his householdgoddess, a stout old mulatto woman who kept his house inorder and prepared his meals.

When he opened the door to-night the little boardedrooms were illuminated with two tallow candles and madefragrant with the odour of fried chicken and hoe-cakes,to which Aunt Mornin was devoting all her energies, andfor the first time perhaps in his life, he failed to greetthese attractions with his usual air of good cheer.

He threw his hat into a chair, and, stretching himself outupon the bedstead, lay there, his hands clasped above hishead and his eyes fixed upon the glow of the fire in the adjoiningroom, where Aunt Mornin was at work.

“A gentleman!” he said, half aloud. “That’s it, byJupiter, a gentleman!”

He remembered it afterwards as a curious coincidencethat he should have busied his mind so actively with hissubject in a manner so unusual with him.

His imagination not being sufficiently vivid to help himout of his difficulty to his own satisfaction, he labouredwith it patiently, recurring to it again and again, and turning34it over until it assumed a greater interest than at first.He only relinquished it with an effort when, going to bedlater than usual, he made up his mind to compose himselfto sleep.

“Good Lord!” he said, turning on his side and addressingsome unseen presence representing the vexed question.“Don’t keep a man awake: settle it yourself.” And finallysank into unconsciousness in the midst of his mental struggle.

About the middle of the night he awakened. He feltthat something had startled him from his sleep, but couldnot tell what it was. A few seconds he lay without moving,listening, and as he listened there came to his ear thesound of a horse’s feet, treading the earth restlessly outsidethe door, the animal itself breathing heavily as if it hadbeen ridden hard; and almost as soon as he aroused torecognition of this fact, there came a sharp tap on the doorand a man’s voice crying “Hallo!”

He knew the voice at once, and unexpected as the summonswas, felt he was not altogether unprepared for it,though he could not have offered even the weakest explanationfor the feeling.

“He’s in trouble,” he said, as he sat up quickly in bed.“Something’s gone wrong.” He rose and in a few secondsopened the door.

He had guessed rightly; it was the stranger. The moonlightfell full upon the side of the house and the road, andthe panting horse stood revealed in a bright light whichgave the man’s face a ghostly look added to his naturalpallor. As he leaned forward, Tom saw that he was asmuch exhausted as was the animal he had ridden.35

“There ain’t a doctor within fifteen miles from here,”began Tom. He stopped short. What he saw in the man’sface checked him.

“She’s dying, I think,” he said, hoarsely, “and there’snot a human being near her.”

“Good Lord!” cried Tom, “Good Lord!” The sweatstarted out on his forehead. He remembered what Stampshad said of her youth and her pale face, and he thoughtof Delia Vanuxem, and from this thought sprang a suddenrecollection of the deserted medical career in which he hadbeen regarded as so ignominious a failure. He had nevermentioned it since he had cut himself off from the old life,and the women for whose children he had prescribed withsome success now and then had considered the endsachieved only the natural results of his multitudinous gifts.But the thought of the desolate young creature lying therealone struck deep. He listened one moment, then made hisresolve.

“Go to the stable,” he said, “and throw a saddle overthe horse you will find there. I know something of suchmatters myself, and I shall be better than nothing, witha woman’s help. I have a woman here who will followus.”

“Get up,” he said, “and saddle the mule and follow meas soon as you can to the cabin in Blair’s Hollow. Thewife of a man who lives there needs a woman with her.Come quickly.”36

When he returned to the door his horse stood there saddled,the stranger sitting on his own and holding thebridle.

There were four miles of road before them, but theyscarcely slackened rein until they were within sight of theHollow, and the few words they exchanged were the barestquestions and answers.

The cabin was built away from the road on the side ofthe hill, and leaving their horses tethered at the foot of theslope, they climbed it together.

In one corner of the room was a roughly made bedstead,and upon it lay a girl, her deathly pale face turned sidewaysupon the pillow. It was as if she lay prostrated bysome wave of agony which had just passed over her; herbreath was faint and rapid, and great drops of sweat stoodout upon her young drawn face.

Tom drew a chair forward and sat down beside her. Helifted one of her hands, touching it gently, but save for aslight quiver of the eyelids she did not stir. A sense of awefell upon him.

“It’s Death,” he said to himself. He had experienceenough to teach him that. He turned to the man.

In a little over an hour Aunt Mornin dismounted fromher mule and tethered it to a sapling at the side of theroad below. She looked up at the light gleaming faintlythrough the pines on the hillside.

“I cum ’s fas’ ’s I could,” she said, “but I reckon I’dorter been here afore. De Lord knows dis is a curi’s ’casion.”

When she crossed the threshold of the cabin, her masterpointed to a small faintly moving bundle lying at the footof the bed over which he was bending.

“Take it into the other room and tell the man to comehere,” he said. “There’s no time to lose.”

He still held the weak hand; but the girl’s eyes were nolonger closed; they were open and fixed on his face. Thegreat fellow was trembling like a leaf. The past hour hadbeen almost more than he could bear. He was entirelyunstrung.

“I wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing,” he had groanedmore than once, and for the first time in his life thankedFate for making him a failure.

As he looked down at his patient, a mist rose before hiseyes, blurring his sight, and he hurriedly brushed itaway.

She was perhaps nineteen years old, and had the veryyoung look a simple trusting nature and innocent untriedlife bring. She was small, fragile, and fair, with the purefairness born of a cold climate. Her large blue-gray eyeshad in them the piteous appeal sometimes to be seen in theeyes of a timid child.

Tom had laid his big hand on her forehead and strokedit, scarcely knowing what he did.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, with a tremor in his38voice. “Close your eyes and try to be quiet for a fewmoments, and then——”

“He’ll come directly,” he answered, though he did nothear her; “—directly. It’s all right.”

And then he stroked her hair again because he knewnot what else to do, seeing, as he did, that the end was sovery near, and that no earthly power, however far beyondhis own poor efforts, could ward it off.

That he too read the awful truth at his first glance, Tomsaw. All attempts at disguise had dropped away. Histhin, scholarly face was as colourless as the fairer one onthe pillow, his brows were knit into rigid lines and his lipswere working. He approached the bed, and for a few momentsstood looking down as if trying to give himself timeto gain self-control. Tom saw the girl’s soft eyes fixed inanguished entreaty; there was a struggle, and from theslowly moving lips came a few faint and broken words.

The man flung himself upon his knees and burst into anagony of such weeping that, seeing it, Tom turned awayshuddering.

“No,” he said, “they will never know, they who lovedyou—who loved you—will never know! God forgive me ifI have done wrong. I have been false that they might bespared. God forgive me for the sin!”

The poor child shivered; she had become still paler, andthe breath came in sharp little puffs through her nostrils.

“God—God!—God!” she panted. But the man did not39seem to hear her. He was praying aloud, a struggling, disjointedprayer.

“O God of sinners,” he cried, “Thou who forgivest,Thou who hast died, forgive—forgive in this hour ofdeath!”

Tom heard no more. He could only listen to the soft,panting breath sinking lower and lower.

Suddenly the piteous eyes turned towards him—thestranger—as if in great dread: perhaps they saw in themere human pity of his face what met some sharp lastneed.

He went to his old place as if in answer to the look, andtook the poor little hand once more, closing the warmthof his own over its coldness. He was weeping like a child.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “—not afraid. It’s—it’s allright.”

And almost as he said it, with her eyes still fixed uponhis own, and with her hand in his, she gave a low sob—anddied.

When a few minutes later he went into the back room,he found Aunt Mornin sitting before the big fireplace inwhich burned a few logs of wood. The light the snappingsticks gave fell full upon her black face, and upon the smallbundle upon her spacious knee.

“Don’t nobody keer nothin’ for this yere?” she said,“ain’t nobody comin’ nigh? Whar’s he? Don’t he takeno int’rus’ in the pore little lonesome child? I ’spect yo’llhaf to take it ye’self, Mars’ De Willerby, while I goes indar.”

Tom stopped short, stricken with a pang of remorse. Helooked down at the small face helplessly.

With the emotional readiness of her race, the comfortablecreature burst into weeping, clasping the child to herbroad bosom.

“Pore chile!” she said, “an’ poor chile lef behin’! DeLord help ’em bofe.”

With manifest fear Tom stooped and took the little redflannel bundle from her arms.41

“Never mind crying,” he said. “Go into the room anddo what’s to be done.”

When left alone with his charge, he sat down and heldit balanced carefully in his hands, his elbows resting onhis knees. He was used to carrying his customers’ children,a great part of his popularity being based upon his jovialfondness for them. But he had never held so small acreature as this in his arms before. He regarded it witha respectful timidity.

“It wasn’t thought of,” he said, reflectively. “Evenshe—poor thing, poor thing—” he ended, hurriedly, “therewas no time.”

He was still holding his small burden with awkwardkindliness when the door opened and the man he had leftin the room beyond came in. He approached the hearthand stood for a few seconds staring at the fire in a stupefied,abstracted way. He did not seem to see the child. At lasthe spoke.

“Fifteen miles away,” Tom answered. “Most of thepeople like to have their dead near them and lay them onthe hillsides.”

The man turned to the fire again—he had not looked atthe child yet—and made a despairing gesture with hishands.

“That she—” he said, “that she should lie so far fromthem, and in unconsecrated ground!”42

“I cannot go there,” with the gesture again. “Thereis no time. I must go away.”

He made no pretence at concealing that he had a secretto hide. He seemed to have given up the effort.

Then for the first time he seemed to become conscious ofthe child’s presence. He turned and gave it a startled sidelongglance, as if he had suddenly been struck with a newfear.

“I—do not know,” he stammered. “I—no! I do notknow. What have I been doing?”

“God’s curse is upon it,” he cried. “There is no placefor it on earth.”

Tom rose with a sudden movement and began to pace thefloor with his charge in his arms.

“It’s a little chap to lay a curse on,” he said. “Andhelpless enough, by Gad!”

He looked down at the diminutive face, and as he didso, a wild thought flashed through his mind. It had thesuddenness and force of a revelation. His big bodytrembled with some feeling it would have gone hard withhim to express, and his heart warmed within him as he feltthe light weight lying against it.

“No place for it!” he cried. “By God, there is! Thereis a placehere—and a man to stand by and see fair-play!”

“Give her to me,” he said, “give her to me, and if thereis no place for her, I’ll find one.”43

“I mean what I say,” said Tom. “I’ll take her andstand by her as long as there is breath in me; and if theday should ever come in spite of me when wrong befallsher, as it befell her mother, some man shall die, so help meGod!”

The warm Southern blood which gave to his brothers’love-songs the grace of passion, and which made them renownedfor their picturesque eloquence of speech, fired himto greater fluency than was usual with him, when he thoughtof the helplessness of the tiny being he held.

“I never betrayed a woman yet, or did one a wrong,”he went on. “I’m not one of the lucky fellows who wintheir hearts,” with a great gulp in his throat. “Perhapsif there’s no one to come between us, she may—may befond of me.”

“Yes,” he said at last, “she will be fond of you. Youwill be worthy of it. There is no one to lay claim toher. Her mother lies dead among strangers, and herfather——”

For a few moments he seemed to be falling into a reverie,but suddenly a tremour seized him and he struck oneclenched hand against the other.

“If a man vowed to the service of God may make anoath,” he said, “I swear that if the day ever dawns whenwe stand face to face, knowing each other, I will not sparehim!”

The child stirred in Tom’s arms and uttered its firstsharp little cry, and as if in answer to the summons, AuntMornin opened the door.44

“It’s all done,” she said. “Gib me de chile, Mars DeWillerby, and go in an’ look at her.”

When he entered the little square living room, Tompaused at the foot of the bed. All was straight and neatand cold. Among the few articles in the one small trunk,the woman had found a simple white dress and had put iton the dead girl. It was such a garment as almost everygirl counts among her possessions. Tom remembered thathis sisters had often worn such things.

“She looks very pretty,” he said. “I dare say hermother made it and she wore it at home. O Lord! OLord!” And with this helpless exclamation, half sigh,half groan, he turned away and walked out of the frontdoor into the open air.

It was early morning by this time, and he passed intothe dew and sunlight not knowing where he was going;but once outside, the sight of his horse tethered to a treeat the roadside brought to his mind the necessity of theoccasion.

“I’ll ride in and see Steven,” he said. “It’s got to bedone, and it’s no work forhim!”

When he reached the Cross-roads there were already twoor three early arrivals lounging on the store-porch andwondering why the doors were not opened.

The first man who saw him, opened upon him the usualcourse of elephantine witticisms.

“Look a yere, Tom,” he drawled, “this ain’t a-gwine todo. You a-gittin’ up ’fore daybreak like the rest of usfolks and ridin’ off Goddlemighty knows whar. It ain’ta-gwine to do now. Whar air ye from?”

But as he rode up and dismounted at the porch, each45saw that something unusual had happened. He tied hishorse and came up the steps in silence.

“Boys,” he said, when he stood among them, “I wantSteven. I’ve been out to the Hollow, and there’s a job forhim there. The—the woman’s dead.”

“Dead!” they echoed, drawing nearer to him in theirexcitement. “When, Tom?”

“Thunder ‘n’ molasses!” ejaculated the only family manof the group, reflectively. “Thunder ‘n’ molasses!” Andthen he began to edge away, still with a reflective air, towardshis mule.

“Boys,” he explained, “there’d ought to be some womenfolks around. I’m gwine for Minty, and she’ll start the reston ’em. Women folks is what’s needed. They kin kinderorganize things whar thar’s trouble.”

“Well,” said Tom, “perhaps you’re right; but don’tsend too many of ’em, and let your wife tell ’em to talkas little as possible and leave the man alone. He’s gotenough to stand up under.”

Before the day was over there were women enough in thehillside cabin. Half a dozen faded black calico riding-skirtshung over the saddles of half a dozen horses tethered in thewood round the house, while inside half a dozen excellentsouls disposed themselves in sympathetic couples about thetwo rooms.

Three sat in the front room, their sunbonnets drawn welldown over their faces in the true mourner’s spirit, one atthe head of the bed slowly moving a fan to and fro overthe handkerchief-covered face upon the pillow. A deadsilence pervaded the place, except when it was broken byoccasional brief remarks made in a whisper.46

“She was a mighty purty-lookin’ young critter,” theysaid. “A sight younger-lookin’ than her man.”

“Gal? That’s a pity. Gals ain’t much chance of bein’raised right whar they’re left.”

“Nobody don’t know. Nobody hain’t heerd nothin’about ’em. They wus kinder curi’s about keepin’ to themselves.”

“If either on ’em had any folks—even if they wus onlysort o’ kin—they might take the chile.”

“Mebbe they will. Seems to reason they must have somekin—even if they ain’t nigh.”

Then the silence reigned again and the woman at thebed’s head gave her undivided attention to the slow, regularmotion of her palm-leaf fan.

In the room beyond a small fire burned in spite of thewarmth of the day, and divers small tin cups and pipkinssimmered before and upon the cinders of it, Aunt Morninvarying her other duties by moving them a shade nearer tothe heat or farther from it, and stirring and tasting at intervals.

Upon a low rocking-chair before the hearth sat the wifeof the family man before referred to. She was a tall, angularcreature, the mother of fifteen, comprising in their numberthree sets of twins. She held her snuff-stick betweenher teeth and the child on her lap, with an easy professionalair.

“I hain’t never had to raise none o’ mine by hand sinceMartin Luther,” she remarked. “I’ve been mighty gladon it, for he was a sight o’ trouble. Kinder colicky and47weakly. Never done no good till we got him off the bottle.He’d one cow’s milk, too, all the time. I was powerfulpartickerler ’bout that. I’d never have raised him if Ihadn’t bin. ‘N’ to this day Martin Luther hain’t what’Poleon and Orlando is.”

“Dis yere chile ain’t gwine to be no trouble to nobody,”put in Aunt Mornin. “She’s a powerful good chile to beginwith, ‘n’ she’s a chile that’s gwine to thrive. She hain’tdone no cryin’ uv no consequence yit, ‘n’ whar a chile startsout dat dar way it speaks well for her. If Mornin had deraisin’ o’ dat chile, dar wouldn’t be no trouble ’t all. Bileder milk well ‘n’ d’lute down right, ‘n’ a chile like dat ain’tgwine to have no colick. My young Mistis Mars D’Willerbybought me from, I’ve raised three o’ hern, an’ I’m used tobilin’ it right and d’lutin’ it down right. Dar’s a heap inde d’lutin’. Dis yere bottle’s ready now, Mis’ Doty, ef yewant it.”

“It’s the very bottle I raised Martin Luther on,” saidMrs. Doty. “It brings back ole times to see it. She takesit purty well, don’t she? Massy sakes! How f’erce she looksfor sich a little thing!”

Later in the day there arose the question of how sheshould be disposed of for the night, and it was in the midstof this discussion that Tom De Willoughby entered.

“Thar ain’t but one room; I s’pose he’ll sleep in that,”said Mrs. Doty, “‘n’ the Lord knows he don’t look the kindo’ critter to know what to do with a chile. We hain’t noneo’ us seen him since this mornin’. I guess he’s kinder wanderin’round. Does any of you know whar he is? We mightax what he ’lows to do.”

Tom bent down over the child as it lay in the woman’slap. No one could see his face.48

“I know what he’s going to do,” he said. “He’s goingaway to-morrow after the funeral.”

“No,” said Tom, professing to be deeply interested inthe unclosing of the small red fist. “I’m going to take thechild.”

There were four sharp exclamations, and for a second orso all four women gazed at him with open mouths. It wasMrs. Doty who first recovered herself sufficiently to speak.She gave him a lively dig with her elbow.

“Now, Tom D’Willerby,” she said, “none of your foolin’.This yere ain’t no time for it.”

“Mars D’Willerby,” said Aunt Mornin, “dis chile’smother’s a-lyin’ dead in the nex’ room.”

“I’m not foolin’,” he said, rather uncertainly. “I’m inearnest, ladies. The mother is dead and the man’s goingaway. There’s nobody else to claim her, he tells me, andso I’ll claim her. There’s enough of me to take care ofher, and I mean to do it.”

It was so extraordinary a sensation, that for a few momentsthere was another silence, broken as before by Mrs. Doty.

“Waal,” she remarked, removing her snuff-stick and expectoratinginto the fire. “Ye’ve allus been kinder fondo’ chillun, Tom, and mebbe she ain’t as colicky by natur’as Martin Luther was, but I mus’ say it’s the curi’sest thingI ever heern—him a-gwine away an’ givin’ her cl’ar up asef he hadn’t no sort o’ nat’ral feelin’s—I do say it’s curi’s.”

“He’s a queer fellow,” said Tom, “a queer fellow!There’s no denying that.”

That this was true was proven by his conduct during the49time in which it was liable to public comment. Until nighthe was not seen, and then he came in at a late hour and,walking in silence through the roomful of watchers, shuthimself up in an inner chamber and remained there alone.

“He’s takin’ it mighty hard,” they said. “Seems likeit’s kinder onsettled his mind. He hain’t never looked atthe child once.”

He did not appear at all the next day until all was readyand Tom De Willoughby went to him.

He found him lying on the bed, his haggard face turnedtowards the window. He did not move until Tom touchedhim on the shoulder.

He obeyed, following him mechanically, but when theyreached the door, Tom stopped him.

“I’ve told them a story that suits well enough,” he said.“I’ve told them that you’re poor and have no friends, andcan’t care for the child, and I’ve a fancy for keeping it.The mother is to lie out here on the hillside until you canafford to find a better place for her—perhaps at your ownhome. I’ve told the tale my own way. I’m not much ofa hand at that kind of thing, but it’ll do. I’ve asked youno questions.”

Then they went together into the other room. There weretwenty or thirty people in it, or standing about the door.It was like all mountain funerals, but for an air of desolatenesseven deeper than usual. The slender pine coffin was50supported upon two chairs in the middle of the room, andthe women stood or sat about, the more easily moved weepinga little under the shadow of their calico sunbonnets.The men leaned against the door-posts, or sat on the woodensteps, bare-headed, silent, and rather restless.

When Tom led his charge into the apartment, there wasa slight stir and moving back of chairs to make way for him.He made his way straight to the coffin. When he reachedit and looked down, he started. Perhaps the sight of thewhite dress with its simple girlish frills and homelike prettinessbrought back to him some memory of happier dayswhen he had seen it worn before.

The pure, childlike face had settled into utter calm, andacross the breast and in the hands were long, slender branchesof the thickly flowering wild white clematis. Half an hourbefore Tom had gone into the woods and returned with thesebranches, which he gave to one of the younger women.

“Put them on her,” he said, awkwardly; “there oughtto be some flowers about her.”

For a few moments there reigned in the room a dead silence.All eyes were fixed upon the man who stood at thecoffin side. He simply looked down at the fair dead face.He bestowed no caresses upon it, and shed no tears, thoughnow and then there was to be seen a muscular contractionof his throat.

At length he turned towards those surrounding him andraised his hand, speaking in a low voice.

It was the manner of a man trained to rigid religious observances,and when the words were uttered, something likean electric shock passed through his hearers. The circuit-riderswho stopped once or twice a month at the log churches51on the roadside were seldom within reach on such an occasionas this, and at such times it was their custom to depend onany good soul who was considered to have the gift of prayer.Perhaps some of them had been wondering who would speakthe last words now, as there was no such person on the spot;but the trained manner and gesture, even while it startledthem by its unexpectedness, set their minds at rest.

They settled themselves in the conventional posture, thewomen retiring into their bonnets, the men hanging theirheads, and the prayer began.

It was a strange appeal—one which only one man amongthem could grasp the meaning of, though all regarded itsoutpouring words with wonder and admiration. It was anoutcry full of passion, dread, and anguish which was likedespair. It was a prayer for mercy—mercy for those whosuffered, for the innocent who might suffer—for lovinghearts too tender to bear the bitter blows of life.

“The loving hearts, O God!” he cried, “the loving heartswho wait—who——”

More than one woman looked up from under her bonnet;his body began to tremble—he staggered and fell into achair, hiding his face, shaking from head to foot in anagony of weeping. Tom made his way to him and bentover him.

“Come with me,” he said, his great voice broken. “Comewith me into the air, it will quiet you, and we can wait until—untilthey come.”

Two or three women began to rock themselves to and froand weep aloud hysterically. It was only the stronger oneswho could control themselves. He was standing at Tom’s52side then; when they came out a short time afterwards,walking slowly and carrying the light burden, which theylowered into its resting-place beneath the pines.

He was quite calm again, and made no sound or movementuntil all was over. Then he spoke to Tom.

He walked back to the desolate house, and in a little whilethe people went their ways, each of them looking back alittle wistfully at the cabin as he or she rode out of sight.

When the last one was lost to view, Tom, who had loiteredabout, went into the cabin.

The man was sitting in the empty room, his gaze fixedupon the two chairs left standing in the middle of it a fewpaces from each other.

“The child has been taken to my house,” he said. “Youdon’t want to see it?”

Tom glanced around him at the desolation of the poor,bare little place, at the empty bed, and the small trunk atthe foot of it.

And then Tom crossed the room slowly and reluctantly,passed out, and closed the door after him.

When he opened his own door, he struck his foot againstsomething and stumbled over it. It was a primitive woodencradle—somewhat like a box on rockers—a quilt of patchworkcovered it, and upon the small pillow rested the roundblack head of his new possession. He stopped short toregard it. Aunt Mornin had left it there while she occupiedherself with preparing supper in the kitchen. It reallylooked quite comfortable. Gradually a smile established itselfupon Tom’s countenance.

“By thunder!” he said, “here you are, youngster, ain’tyou? You’ve come to stay—that’s what you’ve come for.”

And, being answered by a slight stirring of the patchworkquilt, he put his foot out with much cautiousness, touchedthe rocker, and, finding to his great astonishment that hehad accomplished this much safely, he drew up a chair, and,sitting down, devoted himself with laudable enthusiasm toengineering the small ark with a serious and domestic air.

In two days’ time the whole country had heard the news.The mystery of Blair’s Hollow was revived and became agreater mystery than ever. The woman was dead, the manhad disappeared. The cabin stood deserted, save for thefew household goods which had been left just as they wereon the day of the funeral. Not an article had been moved,though the woman to whom Tom De Willoughby, as theperson most concerned, handed over the discarded property,did not find the little trunk, and noticed that articles hadbeen burned in the fireplace in the front room.

“Thar wus a big pile o’ ashes on the ha’th,” she said toher friends, “sorter like as if he’d been burnin’ a heap alittle things o’ one sort or ’nother. It kinder give me coldchills, it looked so lonesome when I shut the door arter thetruck was gone. I left the ashes a-lyin’ thar. I kinder hada curi’s feelin’ about touchin’ on ’em. Nothing wouldn’thire me to live thar. D’Willerby said he reckoned I couldhev moved right in ef I wanted to, but, Lawsy! I wouldn’thave done it fer nothin’.”

But that which roused the greatest excitement in the communitywas Tom De Willoughby’s course.

At first Mrs. Doty’s story of Big Tom’s adoption of thechild was scarcely accepted as being a possibility. The firstman who heard it received it with a grin of disbelief. Thisindividual was naturally Mr. Doty himself.55

“Minty,” he said, “don’t ye let him fool ye. Don’t yeknow Tom D’Willerby by this time? Ye’d orter. It’s jestsome o’ his gas. Don’t ye s’pose he hain’t got no more sense?What’d he do with it?”

“Ye can believe it or not,” replied Mrs. Doty, sharply,“but he’s gwine to raise that young’n, as shore as yourname’s Job. Mornin’s got her this minute.”

“A nice-lookin’ feller he is to raise a infant babe!” heremarked. “Lord a massy! if thet thar ain’t jest like oneo’ his doggoned tales! He is the derndest critter,” withreflective delight, “the derndest! Thar ain’t nothin’ inHamlin to come up to him.”

But the next day even Mr. Doty was convinced. Afterhis customary visit to the Cross-roads, he returned to hisfamily wearing a bewildered expression. It became a sheepishexpression when his wife confronted him on the doorstep.

“Wal, Job Doty,” she remarked, “I guess you’ve foundout by this time whether I was right or wrong.”

“Wal,” answered Mr. Doty, throwing his saddle downon the porch, “I reckon I hev. She’s thar shore enough,‘n’ it seems like he’s gwine to keep her; but I wouldn’thev believed it ef I hadn’t seen it, doggoned ef I would!But, Lord, it’s like him, arter all.” And he brightened upand chuckled again.

“Him!” answered Mr. Doty. “Tom! Lord! ’tain’t a-gwineto trouble Tom. He’ll get along, Tom will. Tom’djus’ as lief as she wus twins as not, mebbe liefer. It’d bea bigger thing for him to engineer ‘n’ gas about ef she wus.Ef you’d seen him bring her into the store to the boys ‘n’56brag on her ‘n’ spread hisself, I reckon ye wouldn’t hevminded ’bout Tom. Why, he’s set on her, Minty, a’reddy,as set as he kin be.”

The Cross-roads post-office had indeed been the scene ofa sort of informallevée held by the newcomer, who had beenthus presented to her fellow-citizens. One man after anotherhad dropped in to hear the truth of the story related,and each one had been dumfounded at the outset by Tom’ssimple statement of fact.

“Yes, I’m going to keep her, boys,” he said. “She’s inthe back part of the house now. According to my calculations,she’s drunk about three quarts of milk since morning,and seems to stand it pretty well, so I suppose she’s all right.”

There were a great many jokes made at first, and a generalspirit of hilariousness reigned, but it was observed by oneof the keener witted ones that, despite his jocular tone, therewas an underlying seriousness in Tom’s air which mightargue that he felt the weight of his responsibility. Whenthe women began to come in, as they did later in the day,he received them with much cordiality, rising from his chairto shake hands with each matron as she appeared.

“Come in to see her, have you?” he said. “That’s right.She’s in the back room. Walk right in. Mis’ Simpson andMis’ Lyle, I’d like some of you ladies to have a look at her.I’ll go with you myself and hear what you have to say.”

He made the journey each time with a slight air of anxiety,leading the way to the wooden cradle, and standing overit like a Herculean guardian angel, listening attentively toall the comments made and all the advice given.

“Lor’, yes!” said one matron; “jest keep her kivered up57‘n’ don’t let no air strike her, ‘n’ ye won’t hev no troublewith her, I reckon.”

“Wal, thet’s my way,” was the answer. “Some folks doesdiff’rent, but I didn’t never expose ’em none till they wasmore’n amonth old. New-born babies is tender things!”

“Wal,” she said. “My man allus used to say they kinderskeered him ’long at the first—he kinder felt as if they’dmebbe come apart, or sumthin’. They allus sorter ’mindedme o’ young mice. Wal, you jest tell Mornin to giv’ heres much milk as she calls fer, an’ don’t let it bile too long,‘n’ she’ll come on fine.”

“Ye’re gwine ter kill her!” she said. “Thar ain’t abreath o’ air in the room, ‘n’ thar ain’t nothin’ a new-bornbaby wants more ’n plenty o’ air. They’re tender critters,‘n’ they cayn’t stand to be smothered up. Ye’ll hev her inspasms afore the day’s over.”

“It is hot,” he said. “It’s hot enough out of doors, butMis’ Simpson told me to keep her shut up, and I thoughtshe’d had experience enough to know.”

“Jane Simpson!” with ill-concealed scorn. “She’d orter!She’s had six to die in their second summer. I reckonshe told ye to give her half-b’iled milk as often as she wantedit?”

“She did tell me not to boil it too much, and to give itto her when she called for it,” he said, slowly.58

“Wal, if ye don’t want ter kill her, take my advice an’bile it a good half hour, ‘n’ don’t give it to her oftener thanonce in three hours. She’ll cry fur it, but ye needn’t mind.Ye’ll get used ter it. I don’t believe in lettin’ young unshev nuthin’ out o’ their reg’lar time.”

The next caller found Tom somewhat discouraged. Hepreceded her into the reception-chamber with less alacritythan he had shown in his previous visits.

She was a younger woman than the rest, and when shereached the cradle’s side, she bent down and rearranged thecover with a soft touch.

“She’s gwine to be a purty little thing,” she said; “she’llbe sorter dark-complected, but she’s gwine to hev purty hair‘n’ eyes. Ye’ll be right proud of her, Tom, when she’sgrown, ‘n’ I guess she’ll be a heap o’ company to you.Lord!” with a motherly sigh, “it seems sorter curi’s herbein’ left to a man; but you’ll do well by her, Tom, you’lldo well by her. I hain’t no doubt o’ that. You was alwaysmighty clever with children.”

“I’ll do all I can for her,” said Tom, “though I supposethat isn’t much.”

The young woman—she had left her own baby in thestore with her husband—patted the little pillow lightly intoshape.

“Ye’ll larn a heap by watchin’ her,” she said. “Jestwatch her close ‘n’ she’ll teach you herself. What do youdo about her milk?” anxiously.

“I’ve been told to do several things,” said Tom. “I’vebeen told to boil it half an hour and not to boil it at all,and to give her all she wanted and not to give her all shewanted. I’m a little mixed about it.”

“Wal, I hain’t had but five, but I’ve allus let it come59to a bile an’ then kinder used my reason about givin’ it.Seems like the mejumer ye air with children, the better.But, Lordy! I guess Mornin knows. She raised her youngmistress’s.”

She kissed the child before she left it, and when she reenteredthe store, hurriedly took her own struggling offspringfrom its father’s arms, settled its pink dress andsunbonnet with a nervous, caressing motion, and, carryingit to the door, stood with it pressed against her breast whileshe seemed to be looking out at the distant mountains. Shedid not move until her husband had completed his purchasesand came to her. And when she followed him outto take her place in the waggon, her eyes were bright andmoist.

“Don’t ye take the Blair’s Holler road, Dave,” she said,as he touched up his horses. “Go round by Jones’s.”

“’Tain’t nothin’ but a notion, I reckon,” she answered;“but I don’t—I don’t want to hev to pass by that thar gravejest to-day. Take the other road.”

In the store itself the spirit of hilariousness increasedas the day advanced. By mail-time the porch was crowdedand Tom had some slight difficulty in maintaining order.

“Say, boys,” he said, “there’s got to be quiet here. Ifwe can’t carry on the establishment without disturbing thehead of the household at present asleep in the back room,this post-office has to close and you can get a new postmaster.That’d suit you, I daresay. Some fellow, now, that wouldn’thalf’tend to his business, not more than half, and that hadn’tlegislative ability enough to carry on a precinct, let alone60a county. You want a man of that kind, I suppose. That’swhat you’re working for.”

“Tom,” said one of the younger ones, “bring her out ‘n’let’s see her. You’ve been braggin’ on her all day, but yehain’t let us see her.”

Tom did not rise from his seat. He tilted his chair backand balanced himself on his heels, his hands thrust into hispockets.

“Boys,” he said, “I’ll bring her out on one condition,and that is that there shall be no shines. I wouldn’thave her scared or upset for a good deal. There’s a jokein this sort of thing, I daresay; but it ain’t all joke. IfI bring her out and show her, there’s to be no crowdingand no row.”

It was agreed that there should be none, and he left hischair and went to the inner room again. When he returned,the men who had been lounging in the porch had come in,though perhaps not one among them understood his ownunusual interest in the affair. Babies were not rarities inHamlin County, every cabin and farm-house in the regionbeing filled to overflowing with white-headed, sunburntyoungsters. And yet when Tom appeared there was a momentof silence. The child was asleep, its tiny black headresting peacefully against the huge chest of its bearer. Therewas no trace of confusion or awkwardness in his face, heseemed well content with his burden, and perhaps it wasthe quiet of his manner as much as anything else whichcaused the slight hush to fall upon those around him.

At last a middle-aged farmer stepped forward. He gavethe child a long and rather curious look.61

“Wal, ’tain’t a bad thing fer her she’s got some un tostan’ by her; gals needs it.”

Tom gave her a long look too. She was sleeping veryquietly; it might have been her mother’s breast she waslying against.

“Well,” he said, “here’s a man to stand by her,” and thenhe raised his head and looked at the rest of them.

The rooms at the back had never seemed so quiet beforeas when, at the close of the day, he went into them. Theyseemed all the quieter by contrast with the excitement ofthe past hours. In the kitchen Mornin was giving the finaltouches to the supper, and in the room which was at oncesitting-room and bedroom, the wooden cradle had fitted itselfin a corner near the fireplace and wore an air of permanentestablishment remarkable to contemplate when one consideredhow unlooked-for an incident it was.

On the threshold of this apartment Tom paused a moment.Such silence reigned that he could hear the soft, faint breathingof the child as it lay asleep. He stopped a second orso to listen to it. Then he stooped down, and began toloosen his shoes gently. As he was doing it, Mornin caughtsight of him in passing the open door.

“I’m going to take them off,” he answered, seriously.“They’ll make too much noise.”

“Now,” she said, “now, Mars Tom, dar ye go right nowa-settin’ out to ruinate a good chile, ’stead o’ ustin’ it terthings—a-settin’ out ter ruinate it. Don’t never tip aroun’fer no chile. Don’t ye never do it, ‘n’ ye won’t never haf ter.Tippin’ roun’ jest spiles ’em. Tell ye, Mornin never tippedroun’ when she had em’ ter raise. Mornin started out rightfrom de fust.”

“She’ll rest easier,” he said. “And so shall I. I mustget a pair of slippers.” And he slipped out of his shoes andstood ready to spend the evening in his stocking-feet. Asolitary tallow candle stood upon the table, shedding itsyellow light upon all surrounding objects to the best of itsability, and, seeing that its flickering brightness fell uponthe small sleeper’s face, he placed it at the farther end ofthe high mantel.

“She’ll be more comfortable,” he said. And then satdown feeling at ease with his conscience.

“By de time she’s a year old, dar won’t be no managin’her,” she said. “Da’s allus de way wid de men folks, allustoo hard or too soft; better leav’ her to Mornin ‘n’ ust’n herto things right at de start.”

There seemed little chance that she would be so “ustened.”Having finished his supper, Tom carried his pipeand newspaper into the kitchen.

“I’ll sit here awhile,” he said. “The smoke might betoo much for her, and the paper rustles so. We’d better lether have her sleep out.”

But when the pipe was out and the last page of the paperread, he went back to his own room. The small ark strandedin his chimney corner was attractive enough to draw himthere. It was a stronger attraction than it would have beento most men. He had always been fond of children andcurious concerning them. There was not a child in the surroundingregion who had not some remembrance of hisrather too lavish good-nature. A visit to the Cross-roads wasoften held out as a reward for circumspect behaviour, andthe being denied the treat was considered punishment heavyenough for most juvenile crimes.64

“Ef ye’d had young uns of yer own, Tom, ye’d hev ruinedthem, shore,” the secretly delighted matrons frequently remarked.“You’d let ’em run right over ye. I reckon yekeep that candy thar right a-purpose to feed ’em on now,don’t yer?”

His numerous admirers, whose affection for him wasfounded on their enjoyment of his ponderous witticismsand the humour which was the little leavening of their unexcitinglives, had once or twice during the past few daysfound themselves unprepared for, and so somewhat bewilderedby, the new mood which had now and then revealeditself.

“It’s kinder outer Tom’s way to take things like he takesthis; it looks onnat’ral,” they said.

If they had seen him as he drew up to the cradle’s side,they would have discovered that they were confronting aside of the man of which they knew nothing. It was theman whose youth had been sore-hearted and desolate, whilehe had been too humble to realise that it was so, and withreason. If he had known lonely hours in the past eightyears, only the four walls of the little back room had seenthem. He had always enacted hisrôle well outside; but itwas only natural that the three silent rooms must haveseemed too empty now and again. As he bent over thecradle, he remembered such times, and somehow felt as ifthey were altogether things of the past and not to troublehim again.

“She’ll be life in the place,” he said. “When she sleepsless and is old enough to make more noise, it will be quitecheerful.”

He spoke with the self-congratulating innocence of inexperience.A speculative smile settled upon his countenance.65

“When she begins to crawl around and—and needs lookingafter, it will be lively enough,” he reflected. “She’llkeep us busy, I daresay.”

It was a circumstance perhaps worthy of mention that henever spoke of the little creature as “it.”

“She’ll need a good deal of looking after,” he went on.“It won’t do to let her tumble around and take care ofherself, as a boy might. We must be tender of her.”

“They think it a good joke, those fellows,” he said; “butit isn’t a joke with us, is it, young woman? We’ve a prettybig job to engineer between us, but I daresay we shall comeout all right. We shall be good friends in the end, andthat’s a pretty nice thing for a lonely fellow to look forwardto.”

“I want you to tell me,” he said to Mornin, “what sheneeds. I suppose she needs something or other.”

“She needs mos’ ev’rything, Mars Tom,” was the answer;“seems like she hain’t bin pervided fer ’t all, no more ’n efshe was a-gwine ter be a youn’ tukky dat de Lord hisselfhed fitted out at de start.”

“Well,” said Tom, “I’ll go to Barnesville to-morrowand talk to Judge Rutherford’s wife about it. She’ll knowwhat she ought to have.”

And, after a few moments given to apparently agreeablereflection, he went back to the room he had left.

He had barely seated himself, however, when he was disturbedby a low-sounding tap on the side door, which stoodso far open as to allow of any stray evening breeze enteringwithout reaching the corner of the chimney.66

“Come in!” said Tom, not in a friendly roar, as usual,but in a discreetly guarded voice.

The door was pushed gently open and the visitor stoodrevealed, blinking with an impartial air at the lightwithin.

“Don’t push it wide open,” said Tom; “come in if youare going to, and leave it as it was.”

Mr. Stamps obeyed without making any noise whatever.It was one of his amiable peculiarities that he never madeany noise, but appeared and disappeared without giving anywarning, making himself very agreeable thereby at inopportunemoments. He slipped in without a sound, deftly leftthe door in its previous position, and at once slipped intoa chair, or rather took possession of one, by balancing himselfon the extreme edge of it, arranging his legs on thelower bar with some dexterity.

Tom’s manner was not cordial. He stretched himself, puthis hands in his pockets, and made no response to the greetingwhich was, upon the whole, a rather unnecessary one,as Mr. Stamps had been hanging about the post-officethrough the whole day, and had only wended his way homewarda few hours before.

“No, I don’t want nothin’, Tom,” he said. Then, aftera pause, he added, very softly:

“Whar wus I a-gwine?” deprecatingly. “Whar? Oh!I—I was a-gwine—I was a-gwine to Marthy’s, I guess.”67

“You’re pretty late,” remarked Tom; “better lose notime; it’s a pretty bad road between here and there.”

“So ’tis,” replied Mr. Stamps, apparently struck with theoriginality of the suggestion. “So ’tis!” He appeared toreflect deeply for a few seconds, but suddenly his eyes beganto wander across the room and rested finally upon the cornerin which the cradle stood. He jerked his head towards it.

“Oh! nothin’, nothin’, Tom, only it’s kinder curi’s—kindercuri’s.”

“Well,” said Tom, “I’ve not begun to look at it in thatlight yet myself.”

Then a faint little chuckle broke from him—not an intrusivechuckle, quite the contrary; a deprecatory and inadvertentsort of chuckle.

“That ain’t me,” he ventured, inoffensively. “I’ve beena-thinkin’ it was curi’s all along.”

“Lord, no!” quite in a hurry. “Lord, no! ’tain’t likely;but it kinder int’rusted me—int’rusted me, findin’ out whatI did.”

Tom thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and coveredas large an area of floor with his legs as was possible withoutupsetting Mr. Stamps’s chair and at the same time thatstealthy little man himself.

“What did you find out?” he demanded, unceremoniously,and with manifest contempt. “Let’s hear.”

“’Twan’t much, mebbe,” he replied, cautiously, “‘n’ thenagain, mebbe ’twas. It was kinder int’rusting, though. That—thatthar was a good prayer o’ his’n, warn’t it?”

“Yes,” admitted Tom, rather blusteringly. “I daresayit was; I suppose you are a better judge of prayers than Iam.”

“I’m a purty good judge on ’em,” modestly. “I’d orterbe, bein’ a class-leader ‘n’ uster kinder critykisin’. I don’tnever do it much in public myself, but I’ve allus critikisedthem as did. Thet sounded more professionaller then theyair mostly—unless comin’ frum them, as has bin raisedto it.”

Then he turned his hat again, setting it more carefullyon his knee. He also fixed his eyes on Tom with a harmlesssmile.

“I did,” said Mr. Stamps, “along at the start, Tom;but ye wouldn’t none on ye believe me.”

Tom remembered that this was true, it having been Mr.Stamps who suggested the Northern theory which had beenso unitedly scouted by his hearers at the time of its propounding.

“I h’ain’t stayed as stiddy in North Car’lina as the reston ’em,” repeated Mr. Stamps. “When I was younger, I69kinder launched out wunct. I thought I could make moneyfaster ef I wus in a more money-makin’er place, ‘n’ Ilaunched out. I went North a spell ‘n’ was thar a rightsmart while. I sorter stedded the folks’ ways ‘n’ I got toknowin’ ’em when I seed ’em ‘n’ heerd ’em talk. I know’dher for one the minit I set eyes on her ‘n’ heern her speak.I didn’t say nuthin’ much to the rest on ye, ’cause I know’sye’d make light on it; but I know’d it wus jest that ar waywith the Northerners.”

Mr. Stamps coughed. He turned his hat over and lookedinto its greasy and battered crown modestly.

“It mout be,” he replied, “‘n’ then again it moughtent.It moughtent be if thar’ wus nuthin’ else to go ’long withit. They wus hidin’ sumthin’, ye know, ‘n’ they sot a heapon keepin’ it hid. Ef a body know’d the whole thing fromthe start, thet’d be int’rustin’, ‘n’ it ’ud be vallyable too.”

“Valuable be d——” Tom began, but he checked himselfonce more on glancing at the cradle.

But Mr. Stamps was so far interested that he did notread the warning he might have read in the suddenly repressedoutbreak. As he neared his goal he became a littleexcited and incautious. He leaned forward, blinking rapidly.

“They wasn’t no man ‘n’ wife,” he said. “Lord, no!‘N’ ef the two as knowed most on ’em ‘n’ was kinder quickestat readin’ signs ’d kinder go partners ‘n’ heve confydence inone another, ‘n’ sorter lay to ‘n’ work it out ‘n’ foller it up,it ud be vallybler than stores, or post-offices, or farms toboth on ’em.” And he leaned so far forward and blinkedso fast that he lost his balance and almost fell off his chair.

It was Tom who saved him from his fall, but not from70that tender consideration for his physical security whichsuch an act would argue. Tom gathered up his legs andstrode across to him almost before he had finished speaking.For the time being he had apparently forgotten thecradle and its occupant. He seized the little man by theback of his collar and lifted him bodily out of his chairand shook him as a huge mastiff might have shaken a rat,agitating the little legs in the large trousers with a forcewhich gave them, for a few seconds, the most active employment.

“You confounded, sneaking, underhanded little thief!”he thundered. “You damned little scoundrel! You—you——”

And he bore him out of doors, set him struggling astridehis mule which was cropping the grass, and struck thatsagacious animal a blow upon her quarters which sent hergalloping along the Barnesville Road at a pace whichcaused her rider to cling to her neck and body with arms andlegs, in which inconvenient posture he remained, unableto recover himself, for a distance of at least half a mile.

Tom returned to the back room in some excitement. Ashe crossed the threshold, he was greeted by a shrill cryfrom the cradle. He ruefully regarded the patchwork quiltwhich seemed to be struggling violently with some unseenagency.

“Doggone him!” he said, innocently, “he’s wakened her—wakenedher, by thunder!”

And he sat down, breathing heavily from his bodily exertion,and began to rock the cradle with a vigour and gravitywhich might have been expected to achieve great results,if Mornin had not appeared and taken his charge intoher own hands.

The next day Tom went to Barnesville. He left theCross-roads on horseback early in the morning, and reachedhis journey’s end at noon. He found on arriving at thetown that the story of his undertaking had preceded him.

When he drew rein before Judge Rutherford’s house andhaving dismounted and tied his horse to the fence, enteredthe gate, the Judge’s wife came out upon the porch tomeet him with her baby in her arms.

“Well,” she said, “I must say I am glad to see you.The Judge brought us a nice story from the country yesterday.What have you been doing at the Cross-roads?I told the Judge I didn’t believe a word of it. There, sitdown in this chair and tell me right away.”

“Well,” answered Tom in a business-like manner, “it’strue or I shouldn’t be here to-day. I’ve come to ask youradvice about—well, about things in general.”

“Gracious!” she exclaimed, “I never heard such athing! Mother!” turning her head to call to someone inthe room beyond, “it’s all true about the baby. Do comeand hear Mr. De Willoughby tell about it.”

She sat down on the steps of the porch laughing and yetregarding Tom with a half sympathetic, half curious look.It was not the first time she had found him unexpectedlymysterious.72

“Where’s the father?” she said. “Didn’t he care forthe poor little thing at all? The Judge heard that he wasso poor that he couldn’t take care of it. Hadn’t he anyfriends? It has a kind of heartless sound to me—his goingaway that way.”

“He was poor,” said Tom, quietly. “And he had norelatives who could take the child. He didn’t know whatto do with it. I—I think he had a chance of making aliving out West and—the blow seemed to have stunnedhim.”

Just then the Judge’s mother came out and he wascalled upon to tell the story again, when it was receivedwith interest even more excited and wondering than before.The older Mrs. Rutherford exclaimed and looked dubiousalternately.

“Well, no,” said Tom, “I’m not. I suppose I shall haveto educate myself up to it gradually. There’ll be a gooddeal to learn, I suppose.”

But he did not appear at all discouraged, and presentlybroached the object of his visit, displaying such modestreadiness to accept advice and avail himself of all opportunitiesfor acquiring valuable information, that his younghostess was aroused to the deepest admiration, and whenhe proceeded to produce quite a large memorandum bookwith a view to taking an immediate list of all required articles,and established rules, she could scarcely contain herdelight.73

Thereupon he was borne into the house and a consultationof the most serious practical nature was held. Pilesof the last baby’s pretty garments being produced to illustrateany obscure point. The sight of those garments withtheir embroidery and many frills fired Tom with new enthusiasm.He could not resist the temptation to pick upone after another of the prettiest and most elaborate andhold them out at arm’s length, his fingers stuck throughthe sleeves the better to survey and display them to advantage.

“Yes,” he kept saying, “that’s the kind of thing shewants—pretty and with plenty of frills.”

He seemed to set his heart especially upon this abundanceof frills and kept it in view throughout the entire arrangements.Little Mrs. Rutherford was to take charge of thematter, purchasing all necessaries and superintending thework of placing it in competent hands.

“Why,” she said, laughing at him delightedly, “she’ll bethe best dressed baby in the county.”

“I’d like her to be among the best,” said Tom, with agrave face, “among the best.”

Whereupon Mrs. Rutherford laughed a little again, andthen quite suddenly stopped and regarded him for a momentwith some thoughtfulness.

“He has some curious notions about that baby, mother,”she said afterwards. “I can see it in all he says.Everyone mightn’t understand it. I’m not sure I do myself,but he has a big, kind heart, that Tom de Willoughby,a big, kind heart.”

She understood more clearly the workings of the big,kind heart before he left them the next morning.74

At night after she had put her child to sleep, she joinedhim on the front porch, where he sat in the moonlight, andthere he spoke more fully to her.

He had seated himself upon the steps of the porch andwore a deeper reflective air, as he played with a spray ofhoneysuckle he had broken from its vine.

“I actually believe you are thinking of that baby now,”she said, with a laugh. “You really look as if you were.”

“Well,” he admitted, “the fact is that’s just what I wasdoing—thinking of her.”

“I was thinking—” holding his spray of honeysucklebetween his thumb and forefinger and looking at it in aninterested way, “I was thinking about what name I shouldgive her.”

“No,” Tom answered, without removing his eyes fromhis honeysuckle, “she hasn’t any name yet.”

There was a moment’s silence which she spent in lookingcuriously both at him and his honeysuckle.

“I didn’t think of asking that either, and nobody knewanything of them. I suppose he was not in the frame ofmind to think of such things himself. It was all over and75done with so soon. He went away as soon as she wasburied.”

“It’s the strangest story I ever heard of in my life,” shecommented, with a sigh of amazement. “The man musthave been crazed with grief. I suppose he was very fond ofhis wife?”

There was another pause of a few moments, and from thethoughts with which they occupied it Mrs. Rutherfordroused herself with a visible effort.

He turned the bit of honeysuckle so that the moonlightfell on its faintly tinted flower. It really seemed as if hefelt he should get on better for having it to look at andrefer to.

“I want it to be a pretty name,” he went on, “and I’vethought of a good many that sounded well enough, butnone of them seemed exactly to hit my fancy in the rightway until I thought of one that came into my mind a fewmoments ago as I sat here. It has a pleasant meaning—Idon’t know that there’s anything in that, of course; butI’ve got a sort of whim about it. I suppose it’s a whim.What do you think—” looking very hard at the honeysuckle,“of Felicia?”

“I think,” said his companion, “that it is likely to bethe best name you could give her, for if she isn’t a happycreature it won’t be your fault.”

“Well,” said Tom, “I’ve set out to do my best and I’dlike to give her a fair start in every way, even in her name,though there mayn’t be anything in it, but I’d like to do it.76I suppose it’s time I should be having some object in life.I’ve never had one before, and I’ve been a useless fellow.Well, I’ve got one now by chance, and I’m bound to holdon to it and do what I can. I want her to have whatchances I can give her on her side, and it came into mymind that Felicia——”

He stopped to consult the honeysuckle, as it were, andJenny Rutherford broke in:

“Yes,” she said, “Felicia is the name for her, and it’s abeautiful thought——”

“Oh!” interrupted Tom, bestirring himself uneasily,“it’s a natural thought. She needs all she can get to balancethe trouble she began life with. Most other littlechaps begin it in a livelier way—in a way that’s more natural,born into a home, and all that. It’s a desolate businessthat she should have no one but a clumsy fellow likeme to pick her up, and that there should be a shadow of—oftrouble and pain and death over her from the first.Good Lord!” with a sudden movement of his big arm,“let’s sweep it away if we can.”

“Look here,” he said, “that’s what I was aiming at whenI set my mind on having her things frilled up and ornamented.I want them to be what they might have been ifshe had been born of a woman who was happy and wellcared for and—and loved—as if she had been thought ofand looked forward to and provided for in a—in a tenderway—as they say young mothers do such things: you knowhow that is; I don’t, perhaps, I’ve only thought of it sometimes——”his voice suddenly dropping.

But he had thought of it often, in his lonely back room77one winter a few years ago, when it had drifted to himthat his brother De Courcy was the father of a son.

Mrs. Rutherford leaned forward in her seat, tears rose inher eyes, and she put her hand impulsively on his shoulder.

“Oh!” she cried, “you are a good man. You’re a goodman, and if she lives, she will tell you so and love you withall her heart. I will see to the little clothes just as if theywere Nellie’s own” (Nellie being the baby, or more properlyspeaking, the last baby, as there were others in the household).“And if there is anything I can ever do for thelittle thing, let me do it for her poor young mother’s sake.”

“I shall be glad to come to you often enough, I reckon,”he said. “I guess she’ll have her little sick spells, as theyall do, and it’ll help wonderfully to have someone to callon. There’s her teeth now,” anxiously, “they’ll be comingthrough in a few months, and then there’ll be the deuce topay.”

He was so overweighted by this reflection, that he wassilent for some minutes afterwards and was only roused bya question requiring a reply.

Later the Judge came in and engaged him in politicalconversation, all the Judge’s conversation being of a politicalnature and generally tending to vigorous denunciationsof some candidate for election who belonged to theopposite party. In Barnesville political feeling ran high,never running low, even when there was no one to beelected or defeated, which was very seldom the case, forbetween such elections and defeat there was always what hadbeen done or what ought to have been done at Washingtonto discuss, it being strongly felt that without the assistance78of Barnesville, Washington would be in a sorry plight indeed.

To-day the Judge had been engaged in a livelier discussionthan usual as he rode homeward with a select partyof legal brethren from court at Brownsboro, and consequentlymade his appearance blustering and joyous. Hebestowed upon his wife a sounding kiss, and, with one armaround her waist, shook hands with Tom in a gust of hospitality,speaking to both at once.

“Howdy, Jenny? Howdy, Tom? It’s a coon’s age sincewe’ve seen you, Tom. Time you showed yourself. Howare the children, Jenny—and what’s Tom Scott been doing?What’s this we hear about that stray young one?Nice tale that is to tell on a fellow. Fowler heard it atBrownsboro and like to have killed himself. Lord! howhot it’s been! I’m ready for supper, Jenny. Sit down,Tom. As soon as I get through supper, we’ll have a realold-fashioned talk. I’ve been suffering for one for threemonths. Jenny, tell Sophronia to spread herself on herwaffles, for I’ve been getting some mighty poor stuff for thelast few days. What do you think of Thatcher running forthe Legislature? Lord! Lord! what a fool that fellow is!Most unpopular man in the county, and about the meanesttoo. Mean? Lord! mean ain’t the name for it! He’ll bebeat so that any other man wouldn’t want to show his head,and it won’t make a mark on him. Nellie’s asleep, ain’tshe, Jenny? I’ve got to go and look at her and the rest ofthem. Don’t you want to come along, Tom? You’re a familyman yourself now, and you ought to take an interest!”

He led the way into the family-room at the back and, takingthe candle from the high mantel, moved it triumphantlyover the beds in which the children slept.79

“Here’s Tom Scott!” he announced. “Tom Scott’s gotto have a crib to himself. Look at him now. What do youthink of that for a boy? He’s five years old next month,and he about runs Barnesville. The boys round here arejust ruining him with making much of him and settinghim up to tricks. He just lives round at the stores and thepost-office. And what Tom Scott don’t know ain’t worthknowing. Came home with six jack-knives in his pocketsthe first day Jenny turned him out in pantaloons. Theboys tried themselves to see who could do best by him.You could hear them shouting and laughing all over thetown at the things they got him to say. I tell you he’s acase, Tom is. Last election he was as stirred up as any ofus. Hollered ‘’Rah for Collins’ until he was hoarse andhis mother brought him home and gave him syrup of squillsbecause she thought he had the croup. What do you thinkhe did, now? Went into Barton’s store and ordered abushel of chestnuts to be sent down to my account andbrought ’em out and set on the horse-block and gave a treatfor Collins. I was coming up home and saw the crowd andheard the hollering and laughing, and there was Tom inthe middle baling out his chestnuts and hollering at the topof his voice: ‘Come on, boys, all you Collins men, here’sa treat for Collins!’ I thought Collins would have diedwhen he heard it. He laughed until he choked, and thenext day he came to see Tom and gave him a gold eagleand a colt. He says he is going to give him a little nigger tolook after it, and he’ll do it. Oh, Tom Scott’s the boy!He’ll be in the White House forty years from now. He’smaking a bee-line for it right now.”

“His mother and his grandmother can’t do a thing withhim,” he said, rapturously, “and it’s as much as I can doto manage him. Oh, he’s a case, is Tom Scott!”

And with this tribute to his character, he left him to hisslumbers, with his sturdy little legs occupying an extensivearea of crib and his face resting on his small brown arm.

After this, the Judge went to his supper and consumeda large quantity of fried chicken, waffles, and coffee, afterwardsjoining Tom on the porch, smoking his pipe andstigmatising Thatcher in a loud and jovial voice as themeanest man in Hamlin.

But for this resonant jovialness of voice, his denunciationof the Democratic Party, which was not his party,might have appeared rather startling.

“There isn’t an honest man among them,” he announced.“Not a durned one! They’re all the same. Cuteach other’s throats for a dime, the whole caboodle. Oh!damn a Democrat anyhow, Tom, ’tain’t in the nature ofthings that they should be anything but thieves and rascals.Just look at the whole thing. It’s founded on liesand corruption and scoundrelism. That’s their foundation.They start out on it, and it ain’t reasonable to expectanything better of them. Good Lord! If I thoughtTom Scott would join the Democrats, I believe I’d blow hisbrains out in his crib this minute.”

Tom’s part in this discussion was that of a large-mindedand strictly impartial listener. This was the position heinvariably assumed when surrounded by political argument.He was not a politician. His comments upon politicalsubjects being usually of a sarcastic nature, andlikely to prove embarrassing to both parties.

“Yes,” he said in reply to the Judge’s outpourings,81“you’re right. There ain’t a chance for them, not aneternal chance. You can’t expect it, and it ain’t all theirfault either. Where are they to get their decent men from,unless some of you fellows go over? Here you are withouta liar or a fool among you—not a durned one—madea clean sweep of all the intellect and honesty and incorruptibleworth in the country and hold on to it too, andthen let out on these fellows because there isn’t any leftfor ’em. I’m a lazy man myself and not much on argument,but I must say that’s a weak place in your logic.You don’t give ’em a show at the start—that’s their misfortune.”

“Oh, go to thunder!” roared the Judge, amiably. “Youdon’t know the first thing about it and never did. That’swhere you fail—in politics. The country would be in amighty poor fix if we had many fellows like you—in amighty poor fix. You’re a good citizen, Tom, but you ain’ta politician.”

“That’s so,” said Tom. “I ain’t good enough for yourparty or bad enough for the other, when a man’s got to beeither a seraphim or a Democrat, there isn’t much chancefor an ordinary fellow to spread himself.”

Whereupon the Judge in an altogether friendly mannerconsigned him to thunder again and, evidently enjoyinghimself immensely, proceeded to the most frightful denunciationsof Thatcher and his party, the mere list ofwhose crimes and mental incapacities should have condemnedthem to perdition and the lunatic asylum upon thespot without further delay.

While he was in the midst of this genial loud-voicedharangue, his wife, who had been in the back room withthe baby, came out and, on seeing her, he seemed suddenly82to forget his animosities and the depraved political conditionof the country altogether, becoming a placable, easilypleased, domesticated creature at once.

“Got Nellie to sleep again, have you?” he said, puttinghis hand on her shoulder. “Well, let’s go in and havesome music. Come and sing ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’That’s my favourite; it beats all the new-fangled operathings all to pieces.”

He led the way into the parlour, which was a large squareroom, regarded by Barnesville as the most sumptuous ofreception chambers, inasmuch as its floor was covered by aBrussels carpet adorned with exotics of multifarious colours,its walls ornamented with massively framed photographs,and its corners fitted up with whatnots and shininghair-cloth seats known in Hamlin County as “tater-tates,”and in that impressive character admired beyond expression.Its crowning glory, however, was the piano, whichhad belonged to Jenny Rutherford in her boarding-schooldays, and was the delight of the Judge’s heart. It furnishedhim with his most cherished recreation in hishours of repose from political conflict and argument, inasmuchas he regarded his wife’s performance seldom to beequalled and never surpassed, and the soft, pleasant voicewith which she sang “The Last Rose of Summer” andother simple and sentimental melodies as that of a cantatricewhose renown might have been world-wide if shehad chosen to turn her attention to its development.

“Lord!” he said, throwing himself into one of the shiningarm-chairs. “There’s nothing like music, nothing underthe shining sun. ‘Music hath charms to soothe thesavage breast.’”

This in his most sonorous quotation tones: “Let a man83get tired or out of sorts, or infernal mad at a pack ofcursed fools, and music’s the thing that’ll set him straightevery time, if he’s any sort of a fellow. A man that ain’tfond of music ain’t of any account on God’s green earth. Iwouldn’t trust him beyond a broom-straw. There’s a meanstreak in a man that don’t care for music, sure. Why, thetime the Democrats elected Peyton, the only thing thatsaved me from bursting a blood-vessel was Jenny’s playing‘My Lodging’s on the Cold Ground’ with variations.I guess she played it for two hours hand-running, becausewhen I found it was sort of soothing me, I didn’t want herto break in on the effect by beginning another. Play itfor Tom, Jenny, after you’ve sung awhile. There’s onething I’ve made up my mind to—if I had fifty girls, I’dhave ’em all learn music if they didn’t know anything—notthe operatic kind, you know, but enough to teach them tosing to a man like Jenny does. Go on, Jenny.”

The sustaining and cheering effects of Sophronia’s friedchicken and waffles probably added to his comfortable enjoyment,which was without limit. He leaned back in hisarmchair as far as the stiffly ornamented back would admitof his so doing and kept time with his head or his feet, occasionallyjoining in on a chorus with startling suddennessin an evidently subdued roar, which, though subdued, wasstill roaring enough, and, despite the excellence of its intention,quite out of tune enough to cause the wax flowersin their wax basket on the table (both done by Jenny atboarding-school) to shake under the glass shade until theytapped against its side with a delicate tinkle.

It was while this was going on that Tom, sitting near aside table, picked up a book and almost unconsciouslyopened it and read its title. Having read its title, an expression84of interest showed itself on his countenance andhe turned over a leaf or so, and as he turned them overdipped into them here and there.

He had the book in his hand when Jenny Rutherfordended her last chorus and came towards him.

“I brought Tom Scott up on it,” she said. “Motherwasn’t with me then, and I was such a child I did not knowwhat to do with him.”

“Seems to be a good sort of book,” said Tom, and heturned over the leaves again.

“It is,” she answered, smiling at him. “There are lotsof things in it every doctor don’t know. It was written bya woman.”

He laid the book down and seemed to forget it, but aboutan hour after when his bedroom candle was brought andhe was on the point of retiring for the night, he turnedupon the threshold of the sitting-room and spoke to hishostess in the tone of one suddenly recollecting himself.

“Where did you say you got that book?” he inquired,snuffing his candle with his thumb and forefinger.

“I didn’t say at all,” answered Jenny. “I got it fromBrough & Bros., Baltimore.”

When he reached his room and shut himself in, he sethis candlestick on a table and proceeded to draw from hispocket the memorandum-book, also producing the stump ofa lead pencil.

Then he made as he stood up before the looking-glassand in the flickering light of the candle, an entry which was85as follows: “Advice to Young Mothers, Brough & Bros.”He made it with a grave countenance and a business-likemanner, and somehow, owing it may be to the small size ofthe room, its low ceilings and many shadows, or the flickeringof the candle, his colossal height and breadth of bodyand tremendous look of strength had never seemed somarked nor appeared so to overpower the objects surroundinghim.

Having completed the entry, he shut up the book and returnedit to his pocket with a relieved air.

“If a man ain’t a young mother,” he remarked, “I guesshe can get the good of it, if he gives himself time. Andwhat she wants”—rather hurriedly—“is to get as gooda start as if she had a young mother.”

And he sat down and pulled off his right boot in so absorbeda frame of mind, that he aroused presently with astart to find that he was holding it as if it had been madeof much less tough material and required handling tenderly.

He was on his way homeward early the next morning,and by noon his horse had climbed the rising ground fromwhich he could look down on the Cross-roads and the post-officebaking itself brown in the sun. Catching sight of thelatter edifice, he smiled a little and shook the bridle againsthis steed’s warm neck.

“Get along, Jake,” he said. “I’m in a little more of ahurry to get home than usual—seems that way anyhow.”

The eagerness he felt was a new experience with him andstirred his sense of humour even while it warmed his alwayseasily moved heart. It had been his wont during thelast eight years to return from any absence readily butnever eagerly or with any touch of excited pleasure. Evenat their brightest aspect, with the added glow of fire andwarmth and good cheer, and contrast to winter’s cold andappetite sharpened by it, the back rooms had always sufferedfrom the disadvantage of offering no prospect ofcompanionship or human interest to him. After the supperhad been disposed of and the newspapers read and the pipesmoked, there had only been the fire to watch, and it wasquite natural to brood as its blaze died down and its logschanged to a bed of glowing cinders. Under such circumstancesit was easy to fall into a habit of brooding toomuch and thinking of things which had better been forgotten.When there was no fire, it had been lonelier still,and he had found the time hang heavily, on his hands.87

“But now,” he said, shaking his bridle again, “thereshe is, and it’s quite queer, by thunder, how much sheseems to give a man to think of and what will it be whenshe begins to talk.” And his smile ended in a jovial laughwhich rather startled Jake, who was not expecting it, andcaused him to shy promptly.

She was not asleep when he entered her presence, whichwas so unusual a state of affairs that he found it a littlealarming.

“Wid dat chile?” chuckled Mornin, delightedly. “Ish’d think not, Mars’ D’Willerby! Dat ar chile’s a-thrivin’an’ a-comin’ ’long jes’ like she’d orter. Dar ain’t a-gwineto be nothin’ wrong wid dat chile.”

He sat down by the cradle’s side and regarded its occupantwith an interest as fresh as if she had just appearedfor the first time upon his horizon. She had been imbibinga large quantity of milk, and the effect of this nourishmenthad been to at once compose her spirits and slightlyenliven them. So she employed the passing moments bylooking at Tom with steadfast and solemn eyes—not, perhaps,very intelligently, but still with a vacant air of interestin him in his character of an object.

“Why,” he said, “she’s grown; she’s grown in thirty-sixhours, and she’s improved too. Oh, yes! she’s comingalong nicely.”

He touched her very carefully with his large forefinger,a liberty which she did not resent or even notice, unless thefact that she winked both eyes might be regarded as a tokenof recognition.88

“We’ll have a box full of things here for her in a coupleof weeks,” he said. “And then she can start out in life—startout in life.”

The last four words seemed to please him; as he repeatedthem he touched her cheek again, carefully as before.

“And start out fair, too!” he added. “Fair and square—asfair and square as any of them.”

He remained a little longer in his seat by the cradle,talking to Mornin, asking her questions and delivering messagesladen with advice from little Mrs. Rutherford, whichinstructions Aunt Mornin plainly regarded as superfluous.

“Now, Mars’ D’Willerby,” she giggled in amiable scorn,“didn’t I raise fo’ o’ my young Mistes’s? Mornin ain’t nospring chicken. Dar ain’t nuffin ’bout chillun Morninh’aint heerd. Leeve dis yere chile to Mornin.”

“She ain’t going to be left to anyone,” said Tom, cheerfully,“not to the best woman in Hamlin County. We’vegot to make up to her for two or three things, and we’regoing to do it.”

Having relieved himself of which sentiment, he went tohis place at the table and ate a mighty dinner, during hisenjoyment of which meal he did not lose interest in hissmall silent partner at all, but cast proud glances andjocular sallies at her every few mouthfuls, partaking of her,as it were, with his mountain trout, and finding her addflavour and zest to his hot corn-bread and fried ham.

When he had ended his repast with an astonishingdraught of buttermilk, and was ready to go into the store,she had dozed off cosily again and was making the best ofher opportunities, so he only paused for a moment to giveher a farewell glance.

“Yes,” he said, “Felicia—that’ll do. When you come89to the meaning of it, I don’t know of anything else that’dseem to start her out as fair—Felicia!”

And though he said the word in a whisper it seemed toreach her ear in some mysterious way, for she stirredslightly, though not as through any sense of disturbance,opened her eyes upon his big figure and, closing them thenext instant, sank into soft sleep again with the faintestdawn or ghost of a baby smile upon her face.

So, nestling under the patchwork quilt and sleeping thehours away in the small ark stranded in the chimney corner,she began life.

“I’d rather had Mirandy or Lucretia,” said Mrs. Doty.“Flishyer ain’t nigh as showy as a heap o’ other names,‘n’ like as not, folks’ll be callin’ her F’lish. Now thar’sVangerline ‘n’ Clementine ‘n’ Everlyne that’d ha’ binshowier then Flishyer.”

“Tom,” put in Mr. Doty, with his usual enjoyment ofhis friend’s weakness and strength, “Tom he’d a notion’bout it. He said it meant som’n ’bout her a’bein’ happy,‘n’ he ’lowed it’d kinder give her a start in the right direction.It’s jes’ like Tom. He’s full o’ notions when he gitsstarted. I’ll back him agin any man in Hamlin fur notionswhen he gits started. Lord! it’s jes’ Tom all over!”

Through a disposition to take even names easily andavoid in all cases any unnecessary exertion, Mrs. Doty’spronunciation was adopted at once, which was perhaps theprincipal reason for a fanciful change being made not longafterwards.90

Against “F’lishyer” Tom rebelled loudly and withoutceasing, but without effect.

The fanciful change came about and was adopted in thiswise. In the course of a couple of weeks the box of littlegarments arrived from Barnesville, accompanied by awarm-hearted note from Jenny Rutherford.

The unpacking of the box—which was not a large one,though it seemed to contain an astonishing number ofthings, most of them of great length and elaborateness—wasto Tom a singularly exciting event, so exciting that hefound himself wondering and not at all sure that he understoodit.

When he opened the box—Mornin standing at his side,her charge in her arms—he did it with tremulous fingers,and when, having laid one article after another in a snowydrift upon the bed, he drew back to look at them, he foundit necessary after a few moments’ inspection to turn aboutand pace the floor, not uneasily, but to work off steam asit were, while Mornin uttered her ejaculations of rapture.

“I never seen nuthin’ like ’em afore, Mars’ D’Willerby,”she said with many excitable giggles. “Dis yer chile’sa-gwine to take the flo’ shore as yo’ bawn! Sich a settin’out as dat is! She’ll git ter puttin’ on airs afore she’s ayear ole. We’ll hev ter give her a settin’ down wunce ’n awhile to keep her straight. Mis’ Rutherford, she wus boun’to do it up in style, she wus!”

Tom took one hand out of his pocket and ruffled his hairwith it, and then put it back again.

“Your young mistresses now,” he suggested, “I supposethey are about such things as their mothers made forthem.”

“Lordy, dey’s a heap finer, Mars’ D’Willerby—a heap91finer! Dey wus rich folks’ chillun, but dey never hed sicha settin’ out as dis yere—not one on ’em.”

“They didn’t?” said Tom, with secretly repressed exultation.“Well, if they didn’t, I guess she’ll do. They arerather nice, I reckon—and I meant they should be. Say,Mornin, suppose you dress her up and let me show her tothe boys.”

He himself picked out the sumptuous long-skirted garmentsshe was to wear and watched with the deepest interestthe rather slow process of her attiring. He was particularlypleased with a wonderfully embroidered whitecloak and lace cap, which latter article he abstractedly tiedon his great fist and found much too small for it. His triumph,when she was given to his arms, he did not attemptto conceal, but carried her into the store with the mannerof a large victor bearing his spoils.

“Now look here, boys,” he announced, being greetedwith the usual laughter and jocular remarks. “This ain’tthe style of thing we want. Hand a man a chair.”

His customary support being produced, he seated himselfin it, keeping his charge balanced with a dexterity andease quite wonderful to behold.

“What we want,” he proceeded, “is a more respectfultone. Something in the elaborate chivalric style, and we’regoing to have it. What we want is to come into this establishmentfeeling that there’s no risk of our being scaredor upset by any durned fool startling us and setting ourdelicate machinery wrong. We’ve come here to stay, andwe expect to be more familiar with things as we growolder, and the thing for us is to start out right without anydisagreeable impressions. We don’t want to say when we’rebrought in here—‘Why, here’s the place where that fool92gave me such a start last week. I wonder if he’s hereagain?’ What we want is to feel that here’s a place that’shome, and a place that a person’s likely to look forwardto coming to with the view to ah—I should say to a highold time of an agreeable description.”

“She’s a-goin’ to be a doggoned purty critter,” said alounger who sat on a barrel near by.

“She ain’t nuthin’ like her mother,” said another;“though she wus a purty critter when I seed her.”

There was a tone in his voice which more than one amongthem had now and again noticed with some slow bewildermentduring the last few weeks—a tone new to them, butwhich in time they grew used to, though they never understoodits meaning.

“Kinder,” they used to say, “as ef he wus mad or—ruffedup, though it warn’t that exactly, either.”

“An har. That’s my kind er women, black eyes an’har, and kinder spirity. They’ve more devil to ’em ‘n’ isbetter able to take care of ’emselves.”

“She’s got some one to take care of her,” answered Tom.“That’s my business.”

“You’ve got her mightily fixed up, Tom,” remarked Mr.Doty, who had just entered. “You’ll hev all the womenin the country flocking up. She sorter makes me think o’the Queen o’ Sheby. Sheby, she wus great on fixin’.”93

Every man who entered, seeing her as she lay in statein Tom’s lap, was drawn towards her to stand and wonderat her vaguely. There developed a tendency to form smalland rather silent groups about her. Infancy was no noveltyin this region of numerous progenies, but the fine softnessof raiment and delicate sumptuousness of infancy were.More than one man, having looked at her and wanderedaway, was unable to resist the temptation to wander backagain and finally to settle in some seat or box upon a barrel,that he might the better indulge his curiosity and interest.

“Ye must hev spent a heap on her, Tom,” was saidrespectfully again and again.

The fact that “a heap had been spent on her” inspiredthe audience with a sense of her importance, whichamounted to reverence. That she represented an apparentlyunaccountable expenditure, was considered to reflectcredit upon her, however vaguely, and to give her a valuenot to be lightly regarded. To Mr. Doty the idea of the“Queen of Sheby” appeared to recur persistently, all hisimaginings of the poetic, the dramatic, and luxurious beingdrawn from Scriptural sources.

“I can’t think o’ nuthin’ else but Sheby when I look ather,” he remarked several times. “She ’minds me moreo’ Sheby then anything else ’n Scripter. Minty’ll jest hevto come ter see her.”

This boldness of imagery struck a chord in the breast ofhis hearers which responded at once. It was discoveredthat more than one of them had been reminded in someindefinite manner of the same distinguished personage.

“When she was consider’ble younger then in Solomon’stime,” said one gentleman with much solemnity.

Tom himself was caught by the fancy and when his94charge was referred to occasionally in a most friendly spiritas “Sheby thar,” he made no protest against it.

“It’s a thunderation sight better than ‘Flishyer,’” hesaid, “and if it comes easier to you fellows, I’ve no objection.Sheba ain’t bad. There’s a kind of swing to it, andyou can’t get it very far wrong. The other’s a good namespoiled, and it’s a name I’ve a fancy for saving for her. Igave it to her—I’ll save it for her, and it shall be a thingbetween us two. Call her Sheba if you like.”

So it fell out that Mr. Doty’s Oriental imaginings sealedher fate and gradually, by a natural process, Felicia wasabandoned for Sheba, even Tom using it upon all ordinaryoccasions.

Having in this manner begun life, a day rarely passedin which she did not spend an hour or so in the post-office.Each afternoon during the first few months of her existenceTom brought her forth attired in all her broidery, and itwas not long before the day came when he began to cherishthe fancy that she knew when the time for her visit wasnear, and enjoyed it when it came.

“She looks as if she did,” he said to Mornin. “Shewouldn’t go to sleep yesterday after I came into the room,and I’ll swear I saw her eyes following me as I walkedabout; and when I carried her in after she was dressed, sheturned her head over her shoulder to look round her andsmiled when she had done it and found nothing was missing.Oh! she knows well enough when she gets in there.”

The fancy was a wonderfully pleasant one to him, andwhen, as time went on, she developed a bright baby habitof noticing all about her, and expressing her pleasure indivers soft little sounds, he was a happier man than he hadever thought to be. His greatest pleasure was the certain95knowledge that she had first noticed himself—that her firstgreeting had been given to him, that her first consciouscaress had been his. She was a loving little creature, showingher affection earlier than most children do. Beforeshe could sit upright, she recognised his in-comings andout-goings, and when he took her in his arms to walk toand fro with her, as was his habit at night, she droppedher tiny head upon his shoulders with a soft yielding tohis tenderness which never failed to quicken the beatingsof his heart.

“There’s something in her face,” he used to say to himself,“something that’s not in every child’s face. It’s alook about her eyes and mouth that seems to tell a man thatshe understands him—whether his spirits are up or down.”

But his spirits were not often down in those days. Therooms at the back no longer wore an air of loneliness, andthe evenings never hung heavily on his hands. In thecourse of a few months he sent to Brownsboro for a highchair and tried the experiment of propping his small companionup in it at his side when he ate his supper. It wasan experiment which succeeded very well and filled himwith triumph. From her place in the kitchen Mornincould hear during every meal the sound of conversationof the most animated description. Tom’s big, kind voicerambling cheerily and replied to by the soft and unformedmurmuring of the child. He was never tired of her, neverwilling to give her up.

“What I might have given to others if they’d cared forit,” was his thought, “I give to her and she knows it.”

It seemed too that she did know it, that from her firstgleaming of consciousness she had turned to him as herfriend, her protector, and her best beloved. When she96heard his footsteps, she turned in Mornin’s arms, or in hercradle, to look for him, and when she saw his face her wholelittle body yearned towards him.

One afternoon when she was about eight months old, heleft her at the usual time. Mornin, who was working, hadspread a big red shawl upon the floor and seated her uponit, and when Tom went out of the room, she sat still playingin the quiet way peculiar to her, with the gay fringe.She gave him a long earnest look as he crossed the threshold,a look which he remembered afterwards as having beenmore thoughtful than usual and which must have representeda large amount of serious speculation mingled withdesire.

Tom went into the store, and proceeded to the performanceof his usual duty of entertaining his customers. Hewas in a jovial mood, and, having a larger number of visitorsthan ordinarily, was kept actively employed in settlingthe political problems of the day and disposing of allpublic difficulties.

“What’s most wanted at the head of things,” he proclaimed,“is a man that’s capable of exerting himself (Mis’Doty, if you choose that calico, Job can cut it off for you!)a man who ain’t afraid of work. (Help yourself, Jim!)Lord! where’d this post-office be if some men had to engineerit—a man who would stand at things and loaf insteadof taking right hold. (For Heaven’s sake, Bill, don’thurry! Jake’ll give you the tea as soon as he’s cut off hiswife’s dress!) That’s the kind of men we want in officenow—in every kind of office—in every kind of office. Ifthere’s one thing I’ve no use for on God’s green earth, it’sa man with no energy. (Nicholson, just kick that boxover here so I can get my feet on it!)”97

He was sitting near the door which connected the backpart of the establishment with the front, and it was justat this juncture that there fell upon his ear a familiar soundas of something being dragged over the floor. The nextmoment he felt his foot touched and then pressed upon bysome soft unsteady weight.

He looked down with a start and saw first a small roundface upturned, its dark eyes tired but rejoicing and faithful,and then a short white dress much soiled and dustedby being dragged over the bare boards of the two storerooms.

“My God, boys!” he said, as he bent down, “she’s followedme! She’s followed me!”

It was quite true. She had never crawled far beyondthe limits of the shawl before, but this morning her longinghad given her courage and strength, and she had set outupon her journey in search of him.

Those about him burst into loud, admiring laughter, butTom did not laugh at all. He lifted the child to his kneeand held her encircled by one arm. She was weary withher exertion and settled at once into an easy sitting posture,her head resting against him while she gazed quietly fromunder her upcurled lashes at the faces grouped about her.Their laughter did not disturb her now that she hadreached her haven of safety.

“To think of her a-followin’ him!” said Mis’ Doty, “‘n’her never sot off nowhars afore. The purty little critter!Lord! Tom, she’s a-gwine ter be a sight when she’s grown—withthem eyes and har! An’ ter think of her a-slippin’off from Mornin an’ makin’ up her little mind to follow ye.98I’ve never had a young ’un to try it that early in all I’veraised.”

“Lordy!” said Mr. Doty, “she’s as sot on Tom ’s he’son her, ‘n’ ef ever a man wus a doggoned fool about a young’un, he is about that’n; ‘n’ fur bein’ a doggoned fool”—triumphantly—“whenhe sets out ter be, I’ll back Tomagin any man in Hamlin.”

Tom said but little. He made no more jokes. He keptthe child with him through the rest of the day, holdingher upon his knee or carrying her out upon the porch.

When at supper-time he carried her back to the room,she was asleep and he laid her in her cradle himself. Hemoved about very quietly afterwards and ate his supperalone with frequent glances at the sleeper.

“Don’t take her away,” he said to Mornin when shecame in; “leave her here.”

“‘N’ hev her a-wakin’ ‘n’ disturbin’ uv ye, Mars’ Tom!”she responded.

“Leave her here,” he said, laying his hand on the headof the cradle. “She’ll not disturb me. We shall get alongfinely together.”

She was left, Mornin taking her departure with manifestdisbelief in the practicability of the plan. And then, havingdrawn the cradle to his bedside, Tom put out the lightand retired himself.

But he did not sleep for some time; having flung hismighty body upon the couch, he lay with his arms thrownabove his head gazing at the darkness and listening to thesoft breathing at his side. He was thinking over the oneevent of the day.

What might have seemed a slight thing to many menhad struck deep into his great heart.99

“My God!” he said, a touch of reverential tone in hiswhisper, “to think of her following me!”

And he stretched out his hand in the darkness and laidit upon the side of the cradle lightly, and afterwards fellasleep.

Just at this time, which was the year before the CivilWar, that fashionable summer resort, the White BriarSprings, was at its gayest. Rarely before had the hotelbeen filled with so brilliant a company. A few extra casesof yellow fever had been the cause of an unusual exodusfrom the fever districts, and in consequence the varioussummer resorts flourished and grew strong. The “WhiteBriar” especially exerted and arrayed itself in its mostfestive garments. The great dining-room was filled tooverflowing, the waiters were driven to desperation by thedemands made upon them as they flew from table to tableand endeavoured with laudable zeal to commit to memoryfifty orders at once and at the same time to answer“Comin’, sah” to the same number of snapped fingers.There were belles from Louisiana, beauties from Mississippi,and enslavers from Virginia, accompanied by theirmothers, their fathers, their troops of younger brothersand sisters, and their black servants. There were nursesand valets and maids of all shades from ebony to cream-colour,and of all varieties of picturesqueness. All daythe immense piazzas were crowded with promenaders,sitters, talkers, fancy-workers, servants attired in rainbowhues and apparently enjoying their idleness or their pretenceat work to the utmost. Every morning partiesplayed ten-pins, rode, strolled, gossipped; every afternoonthe daring few who did not doze away the heated hours inthe shaded rooms, flirted in couples under trees on the101lawn, or in the woods, or by the creek. Every eveningthere was to be found ardent youth to dance in the ballroom,and twice a week at least did this same youth,arrayed in robes suited to honour the occasion, disportitself joyfully and with transcendent delight in the presenceof its elders assembled in rooms around the walls ofthe same glittering apartment with the intention ofbestowing distinction upon what was known as “thehop.”

Sometimes, in dull seasons, there was a scarcity ofpartners upon such occasions; but this year such was notthe case. Aside from the brothers of the belles and beautiesbefore referred to, who mustered in full force, therewas a reserved corps of cavaliers who, though past theearly and crude bloom of their first youth, were still malleablematerial. Who could desire a more gallant attendantthan the agile though elderly Major Beaufort, who,with a large party of nieces, daughters, and granddaughters,made the tour of the watering-places each succeedingyear, pervading the atmosphere of each with the subtleessence of his gallantry and hilariousness?

“I should be a miserable man, sir,” proclaimed theMajor, chivalrously upon each succeeding Thursday—“Ishould be a miserable man in seeing before me such graceand youth and beauty, feeling that I am no longer young,if I did not possess a heart which will throb for Woman aslong as it beats with life.”

Having distinguished himself by which poetic remark,he usually called up a waiter with champagne and glasses,in which beverage he gallantly drank the health of theadmiring circle which partook of it with him.

Attached to the Beaufort party were various lesser luminaries,each of whom, it must be confessed, might well,102under ordinary circumstances, have formed the centre ofa circle himself; legal luminaries, social luminaries, politicalluminaries, each playing ten-pins and whist, eachriding, each showing in all small gallantries, and addingby their presence to the exhilaration of the hour.

There was one gentleman, however, who, though he wasnot of the Beaufort party, could still not be consideredamong the lesser luminaries. He was a planet with anorbit of his own. This gentleman had ridden up to thehotel one afternoon on a fine horse, accompanied by ahandsome, gloomy boy on another animal as fine, and followedby a well-dressed young negro carrying variousnecessary trappings, and himself mounted in a mannerwhich did no discredit to his owner. The air of the partywas such as to occasion some sensation on the front gallery,where the greater number of the guests were congregated.

“Oh,” cried one of the Beauforts, “what a distinguished-lookingman. Oh, what a handsome boy! andwhat splendid horses.”

At that moment one of the other ladies—a dark, quiet,clever matron from South Carolina—uttered an exclamation.

The new arrival recognised her at once and made hisway towards her with the most graceful air of ease andpleasure, notwithstanding that it was necessary that heshould wind his way dexterously round numerous groupsin and out among a dozen chairs.

He was a strikingly handsome man, dark, aquiline, talland lithe of figure; his clothes fitted him marvellouslywell at the waist, his slender arched foot was incased in a103marvel of a boot, his black hair was rather long, and hissuperb eyes gained a mysterious depth and mellownessfrom the length and darkness of their lashes; altogether,it was quite natural that for the moment the Beaufortsand their satellites should pale somewhat by comparison.

When he bowed over Mrs. Marvin’s hand, a thrill ofpleasure made itself manifest in those surrounding them.He spoke in the most melodious of voices.

“The greatest of pleasures,” he was heard to say. “Idid not expect this.” And then, in response to some question:“My health since—since my loss has been verypoor. I hope to recover strength and spirits,” with an airof delicate and gentle melancholy. “May I present myboy—Rupert?”

In response to the summons the boy came forward—notawkwardly, or with any embarrassment, but with a bearingnot at all likely to create a pleasant impression. Theguests could see that he was even a handsomer boy thanhe had seemed at a greater distance. He was very likehis father in the matter of aquiline features, clear pale-oliveskin and superb dark eyes: his face had even a finenessthe older man’s lacked, but the straight marks of afixed frown were upon his forehead, and his mouth wore alook which accorded well with the lines.

He approached and bared his head, making his boyishbow in a manner which did credit to his training, butthough he blushed slightly on being addressed, his mannerwas by no means a responsive one, and he moved away assoon as an opportunity presented itself, leaving his fathermaking himself very fascinating in a gently chivalric way,and establishing himself as a planet by the mere manner ofhis address towards a woman who was neither pretty, young,nor enthusiastic.104

There was no woman in the hotel so little prone to enthusiasmas this one. She was old enough and cleverenough to have few illusions. It was thought singularthat though she admitted she had known the Colonel fromhis youth, she showed very little partiality for his society,and, indeed, treated him with marked reserve. She neverjoined in the choruses of praise which were chanted dailyaround her.

“I know the De Willoughbys very well,” she said.“Oh, yes, very well indeed—in a way. We hear a gooddeal of them. De Courcy’s wife was a friend of mine.This one is De Courcy, the other is Romaine, and therewas one who was considered a sort of black sheep and brokewith the family altogether. They don’t know where he isand don’t care to know, I suppose. They have their ownviews of the matter. Oh, yes; I know them very well, ina way.”

When questioned by enthusiasts, she was obliged to confessthat the hero of the hour was bountifully suppliedwith all outward gifts of nature, was to be envied hischarm of manner and the air of romance surrounding him,though, in admitting this, she added a little comment notgenerally approved of.

“It’s a little of the Troubadour order,” she said; “butI dare say no woman would deny that it is rather taking.I don’t deny it, it is taking—if you don’t go below the surface.”

Never was a man so popular as the Colonel, and never aman so missed as he on the days of his indisposition. Hehad such days when he did not leave his room and hisnegro was kept busy attending to his wants. The natureof his attacks was not definitely understood, but afterthem he always appeared wearing an interesting air of105languor and melancholy, and was more admired thanever.

“The boy seems to feel it very much,” the lady remarked.“He always looks so uneasy and anxious, and never goesaway from the house at all. I suppose they are very fondof each other.”

“I dare say he does feel it very much,” said Mrs. Marvinwith her reserved little smile. “He is De Willoughbyenough for that.”

It was not agreed to that he inherited his father’s graceof manner however. He was a definitely unamiable boy,if one might judge from appearances. He always wore adark little scowl, as if he were either on the point of fallinginto a secret rage or making his way out of one; insteadof allowing himself to be admired and made a pet of,he showed an unnatural preference for prowling aroundthe grounds and galleries alone, sometimes sitting in cornersand professing to read, but generally appearing to bemeditating resentfully upon his wrongs in a manner whichin a less handsome boy would have been decidedly unpleasant.Even Mrs. Marvin’s advances did not meet withany show of cordiality, though it was allowed that he appearedless averse to her society than to that of any otherwoman, including the half dozen belles and beauties whowould have enjoyed his boyish admiration greatly.

“I knew your mother,” said Mrs. Marvin to him oneday as he sat near her upon the gallery.

“Did you?” he answered, in a rather encouraging way.“When did you know her?”

“When she was young. We were girls together. Shewas a beauty and I wasn’t, but we were very fond of eachother.”

“What makes women break so?” he asked. “I don’tsee why they break so. She had pretty eyes when shedied, but,——”

He drew his handsome black brows down and scowled;and, seeing that he was angry at himself for having spoken,Mrs. Marvin made another remark.

“She’s better off where she is, I suppose,” he said.“That’s what they always say of dead people.”

The negro servants about the hotel were all fond of him,though his manner towards them was that of a fiery andenthusiastic young potentate, brooking no delay or interference.His beauty and his high-handed way impressedthem as being the belongings of one favoured by fortuneand worthy of admiration and respect.

“He’s a D’Willoughby out and out,” said his father’snegro, Tip. “Ain’t no mistake ’bout dat. He’s a youngdevil when his spirit’s up, ’n it’s easy raised. But he’s apowerful gen’lman sort o’ boy—powerful. Throw’s you aquarter soon’s look at ye, ’n he’s got the right kind o’ highways—dough der ain’t no sayin’ he ain’t a young devil;de Kurnel hisself cayn’t outcuss him when his spirit’sup.”

The Colonel and his son had been at the springs amonth, when the fancy-dress ball took place which wasthe occasion of a very unpleasant episode in the annals ofthis summer.

For several days before the greatest excitement hadprevailed at the hotel. A pleasant air of mystery had prevailedover the preparations that were being made. Therural proprietors of the two stores in which the neighbourhood107rejoiced were driven to distraction by constantdemands made upon them for articles and materials ofwhich they had never before heard, and which were notprocurable within a hundred miles of the place. Bedroomswere overflowing with dresses in process of alterationfrom ordinary social aspects to marvellous combinationsof imagination and ingenuity, while an amiableborrowing and exchanging went on through all the corridors.

On the day before the ball the Colonel’s popularityreached its height. As it was the time of a certain localelection, there was held upon the grounds a politicalmeeting, giving such individuals as chose to avail themselvesof it the opportunity of expressing their opinions tothe assembled guests and the thirty or forty mountaineerswho had suddenly and without any warning of previousexistence appeared upon the scene.

The Colonel had been one of the first called upon, and,to the delight of his admirers, he responded at once withthe utmost grace to the call.

When he ascended the little platform with the slow,light step which was numbered among his chief attractionsand stood before his audience for a moment lookingdown at them gently and reflectively from under his beautifullashes, a throb of expectation was felt in every tenderbosom.

His speech fell short of no desire, being decided to besimple perfection. His soft voice, his quiet ease of movement,his eloquence, were all that could be hoped for frommortal man. He mentioned with high-bred depreciationthe fact that he could not fairly call himself a politicianunless as any son of the fair South must be one at least atheart, however devoid of the gifts which have made her108greatest heard from continent to continent. He was onlyone of the many who had at stake their cherished institutions,the homes they loved, the beloved who brightenedthose homes, and their own happiness as it was centred inthose homes, and irrevocably bound in that of the fairestland upon which the fair sun shone.

The applause at this juncture was so great as to obligehim to pause for a few moments; but it was to be regrettedthat nine out of ten of the mountaineers remainedentirely unresponsive, crossing their jean-coveredlegs and rubbing their lean and grizzled jaws in a soullessmanner. They displayed this apathetic indifference to themost graceful flight of rhetoric, to the most musical appealsto the hearts of all men loving freedom, to theannouncement that matters had reached a sad and significantcrisis, that the peculiar institutions left as a legacyby their forefathers were threatened by the Northernfanatics, and that in the near future the blood of patriotsmight be poured forth as a libation upon the soil they loved;to eloquent denunciations of the hirelings and would-beviolators of our rights under the constitution. To all thesethey listened, evidently devoting all their slow energies tothe comprehension of it, but they were less moved thanmight have been expected of men little used to oratory.

But it was the termination of the speech that stirred allhearts. With a dexterity only to be compared to its easygrace, the orator left the sterner side of the question for atenderer one to which he had already referred in passing,and which was the side of all political questions which presentedthemselves to such men as he. Every man, it was to behoped, knew the meaning of home and love and tendernessin some form, however poor and humble and unpatriotic;to every man was given a man’s privilege of defending the109rights and sacredness of this home, this love, with hisstrength, with his might, with the blood of his beatingheart if need be. To a Southern man, as to all men, hisright to be first in his own land in ruling, in choosingrulers, in carrying out the laws, meant his right to defendthis home and that which was precious to him within it.There were a few before him upon this summer’s day, alas,alas! that Fate should will it so, who had not somewherea grave whose grass moved in the softness of the wind overdead loves and hopes cherished even in this hour as naughtelse was cherished. “And these graves——”

He faltered and paused, glancing towards the doorwaywith a singular expression. For a few seconds he couldnot go on. He was obliged to raise to his lips the glass ofwater which had been provided for him.

“Oh!” was sighed softly through the room, “his emotionhas overpowered him. Poor fellow! how sad helooks.”

Mrs. Marvin simply followed the direction his eyes hadtaken. She was a practical person. The object her eyemet was the figure of the boy who had come in a few minutesbefore. He was leaning against the doorpost, attired in acool suit of white linen, his hands in his pockets, the expressionof his handsome darkling young face a most curiousone. He was staring at his father steadily, his fineeyes wide open holding a spark of inward rage, his nostrilsdilated and quivering. He seemed bent upon making theorator meet his glance, but the orator showed no desire todo so. He gave his sole attention to his glass of water.To this clever, elderly Southern matron it was an interestingscene.

“If he sprang up in two minutes and threw somethingdeadly and murderous at him,” she said to herself, “I110should not be in the least surprised; and I should not bethe first to blame him.”

But the rest of the audience was intent upon the Colonel,who, recovering himself, finished his harangue withan appeal that the land made sacred by those loves, thosehomes, those graves, might be left solely in the hands ofthe men who loved it best, who knew its needs, who yearnedfor its highest development, and who, when the needfulhour arrived, would lay down their lives to save its honour.

When he concluded, and was on the point of seating himselfvery quietly, without any appearance of being consciousof the great sensation he had created, and still wearing anadmirable touch of melancholy upon his fine countenance,Major Beaufort rushed towards him, almost upsetting achair in his eagerness, and grasped his hand and shook itwith a congratulatory ardour so impressive and enthusiasticas to be a sensation in itself.

There were other speeches afterwards. Fired by the exampleof his friend, Major Beaufort distinguished himselfby an harangue overflowing with gallantry and adornedthroughout with amiable allusions to the greatest power ofall, the power of Youth, Beauty, and Womanhood. Thepolitical perspicuity of the address was perhaps somewhatobscured by its being chivalrously pointed towards those fairbeings who brighten our existence and lengthen our griefs.Without the Ladies, the speaker found, we may be politicians,but we cannot be gentlemen. He discovered (uponthe spot, and with a delicate suggestion of pathos) that bya curious coincidence, the Ladies were the men’s mothers,their wives, their sisters, their daughters. This beinggreatly applauded, he added that over these husbands, thesefathers, these brothers—and might be added “these lovers”—theLadies wielded a mighty influence. The position of111Woman, even in the darkest ages, had been the positionof one whose delicate hand worked the lever of the world;but to-day, in these more enlightened times, in the age ofadvancement and discovery, before what great and sublimepower did the nobleman, the inventor, the literary man,the warrior, bow, as he bowed before the shrine of theLadies?

But it was the Colonel who bore away the palm and wasthe hero of the hour. When the audience rose he wassurrounded at once by groups of enthusiasts, who shookhands with him, who poured forth libations of praise,who hung upon his every word with rapture.

“How proud of you he must be,” said one of the fairestin the group of worshippers; “boys of his age feelthings so strongly. I wonder why he doesn’t come forwardand say something to you? He is too shy, I suppose.”

“I dare say,” said the Colonel with his most fascinatinggentle smile. “One must not expect enthusiasm of boys.I have no doubt he thought it a great bore and wonderedwhat I was aiming at.”

“Impossible,” exclaimed the fair enslaver. “Don’t dohim an injustice, Colonel de Willoughby.”

But as she glanced towards the doorway her voice dieddown and the expression of her face changed somewhat.The boy—still with his hands in his pockets—was lookingon with an air which was as insolent as it was remarkable,an air of youthful scorn and malignant derision whichstaggered even the enthusiast.

“He is a handsome fellow,” he said, “and I must ownto being a vain parent, but he has a demon of a temperand he has been spoiled. He’ll get over it when he isolder.”112

It was a great blow to his admirers when it becameknown the next morning that the Colonel was sufferingfrom one of his attacks, and even a worse one than usual.Neb was shut up in his room with him all day, and it wasrumoured that the boy would not come down, but wanderedup and down the corridors restlessly, looking miserableenough to have touched the stoniest heart.

During the morning quite a gloom pervaded the atmosphere;only the excitement of preparations for theevening could have proved an antidote to the general depression.

It was to be a brilliant occasion. The county had beenscoured for guests, some of whom were to travel in theircarriages from other watering-places for twenty or thirtymiles. The ballroom had been decorated by a committeeof ladies; the costumes, it was anticipated, would be dazzlingbeyond measure. No disappointment was felt whenthe festal hour arrived, but the very keen emotion attendantupon the absence of the interesting invalid.

“If he had only been well enough to be here,” it wassaid, “how he would have enjoyed it.”

Major Beaufort, attired as a Sultan and appropriatelysurrounded by his harem in sarsenet trousers and spangledveils, gave universal satisfaction. Minnehaha in feathersand moccasins, and Hiawatha in moccasins and feathers,gave a touch of mild poetry to the evening. Sisters ofCharity in white cambric caps told their beads throughthe mazes of the lancers. Night and Morning, attiredrespectively in black and white tarletan, and both profuselyadorned with silver paper stars, combined theirforces to add romance and vividness to the festive scene.

There had been dancing and flirtation, upon which thoseof the guests who did not join gazed for an hour or so as113they sat in the chairs arranged around the walls, doubtlessenjoying themselves intensely, and the gaiety was at itsheight, when some commotion became manifest at one ofthe doors. Those grouped about it appeared to be startledat finding something or somebody behind them, andalmost immediately it was seen that this something orsomebody was bent upon crowding past them. A loud,insane-sounding laugh was heard. The dancers stoppedand turned towards it with one accord, their alarm andastonishment depicted on their faces. The spectatorsbent forward in their seats.

This last interjection took the form of a chorus as twoof the group at the doorway were pushed headlong intothe room, and a tall, unsteady, half-dressed figure made itsviolent entrance.

At the first glance it was not easy to recognize it; it wassimply the figure of a very tall man in an ungirt costume,composed of shirt and pantaloons. He was crushed anddishevelled. His hair hung over his forehead. He strodeinto the middle of the quadrille, and stood with his handsin his pockets, swaying to and fro, with a stare at oncemalicious and vacant.

“Oh,” he remarked, sardonically, as he took in his surroundings,and then everyone recognized at once that itwas Colonel De Willoughby, and that Colonel De Willoughbywas mad drunk.

He caught sight of Major Beaufort, and staggeredtowards him with another frantic laugh.

“Good God, Major,” he cried; “how becomin’ ’tis, howdamned becomin’. Harem an’ all. Only trouble is you’retoo fat—too fat; if you weren’t so fat wouldn’t look sucha damned fool.”114

It was to be regretted there was no longer an air of refinementabout his intoxication, no suggestion of melancholygrace, no ghost of his usual high-bred suavity; with hislaugh and stare and unsteady legs he was simply a moredrunken lunatic than one generally sees.

There was a rush at him from all sides—Major Beaufort,in his Turkish trousers, being the first to fall upon himand have his turban stamped upon in the encounter. Hewas borne across the room, shouting and struggling andindulging in profanity of the most frightful kind. Justas they got him to the door his black boy Neb appeared,looking ashen with fright.

“De Lord o’ massey,” he cried. “I ain’t lef’ himmore’n a minit. He sent me down hisself. One o’ hiscunnin’ ways to get rid o’ me when he’s at de wust. Opium’n whiskey, dats what gets him dis way. Bof togeddera-gwine ter kill him some dese days, ’n de opium am dewustest. For de Lord’s sake some o’ you gen’men cum ’nhep me till I git him quieted down.”

It was all over in a few moments, but the effort madeto return to hilariousness was a failure; the shock to themajority of the gay throng had been great. Mrs. Marvin,sitting in her special corner, was besieged with questions,and at length was prevailed upon through the force ofcircumstances to speak the truth as she knew it.

“Has he ever done it before?” she said. “Yes, he hasdone it before—he has done it a dozen times since he hasbeen here, only to-night he was madder than usual and gotaway from his servant. What is it? It is opium when itisn’t whiskey, and whiskey when it isn’t opium, andoftenest it is both together. He is the worst of a bad lot,and if you haven’t understood that miserable angry boybefore you may understand him now. His mother died115of a broken heart when he was twelve years old, and hewatched her die of it and knew what killed her, and isproud enough to feel the shame that rests upon him.That’s as much as I care to say, and yet it isn’t the half.”

When those bearing the Colonel to his room turned intothe corridor leading to it they encountered his son, whomet them with a white-lipped rage, startling to every manof them in its incongruous contrast to the boyish face andfigure.

“Yes,” responded the Colonel hilariously; “’ve got mesafe ’nuff; pick me up ad’ car’ me. If man won’t go out,tote ’m out.”

They carried him into his rooms and laid him down, andmore than one among them turned curiously to the boy ashe stood near the bed looking down at the dishevelled,incoherent, gibbering object upon it.

“Hello, youngster,” said one of the party, “that’s notthe thing exactly.”

“Go to the devil,” roared the lad, livid with wrath andshame. “Do you think I’ll not say what I please? Anice one he is for a fellow to have for a father—to be tiedto and dragged about by—drinking himself mad and disgracinghimself after his palaver and sentiment and playingthe gentleman. He ought to be a gentleman—he’s gota gentleman’s name, and”—choking a little—“all the restof it. I hate him! He makes me sick. I wish he wasdead. He’s a liar and a bully and a fool. I’d kill him ifhe wasn’t my father. I should like to kill him forbeingmy father!”116

Suddenly his voice faltered and his face turned white.He walked to the other side of the room, turning his backto them all, and, flinging himself into a chair, dropped hiscurly head on his arm on the window-sill and sobbed aloudwith a weakness and broken-down fury pitiful to see.

“Queer little devil,” he said. “Prou’ lit’l devil! Like’smoth‘—don’ like it. Moth’ used er cry.She didn’t like it.”

As the Cross-roads had regarded Tom as a piece ofpersonal property to be proud of, so it fell into the habitof regarding hisprotégée. The romance of her historywas considered to confer distinction upon the vicinity, andTom’s affection for her was approved of as a sentimentworthy of the largeness of the Cross-roads nature.

“They kinder set one anuther off,” it was frequentlyremarked, “her a-bein’ so little and him so big, an’ bothof ’em stickin’ to each other so clost. Lordy! ’tain’t nouse a-tryin’ to part ’em. Sheby, she ain’t a-goin’ nowhar’thout Tom, an’ Tom, he h’aint a-goin’ nowhars ’thoutSheby!”

When the child was five years old the changes whichhad taken place in the store were followed by still greaterchanges in the house. Up to her fifth birthday the experienceshad balanced themselves between the store andthe three back rooms with their bare floors and roughwalls. She had had her corner, her small chair behindthe counter or near the stove, and there she had amusedherself with her playthings through long or short days,and in the evening Tom had taken her upon his shoulderand carried her back to the house, as it was called, leavinghis careless, roystering gaiety behind him locked up inthe store, ready to be resumed for the edification of hiscustomers the next morning.

“He don’t hev no pore folkses ways wid dat chile,” saidMornin once to Mrs. Doty; “he don’t never speak to her118no other then gen’leman way. He’s a-raisin’ her to befitten fur de highes’. He’s mighty keerful ob her way obspeakin’ an’ settin’ to de table. Mornin’s got to stand’hind her cheer an’ wait on her hersel’; an’ sence she wasbig ’nuff to set dar, she’s had a silver fork an’ spoonan’ napkin-ring same’s de President himself. Ah; he’sa-raisin’ her keerful, is Mars D’Willerby.”

“Waal,” said Mrs. Doty, “ef ’twarn’t Tom D’Willerby,I shed say it was a puttin’ on airs; but thar ain’t no airs’bout Tom D’Willerby.”

From the first Mr. Stamps’s interest in Tom’sprotégéehad been unfailing though quiet. When he came intothe store, which he did some three times a week, it washis habit to fix his small, pale eyes upon her and followher movements stealthily but with unflagging watchfulness.Occasionally this occupation so absorbed him thatwhen she moved to her small corner behind the counter,vaguely oppressed by his surveillance, he sauntered acrossthe room and took his seat upon the counter itself, persistingin his mild, furtive gaze, until it became too muchfor her and she sought refuge at Tom’s knee.

“He looks at me,” she burst out distressedly on onesuch day. “Don’t let him look at me.”

Tom gave a start and turned round, and Mr. Stampsgave a start also, at once mildly recovering himself.

“Thar’s no law agin it, Tom,” he replied. “An’ she’swuth a lookin’ at. She’s that kind, an’ it’ll grow on her.Ten year from now thar ain’t no law es ’ed keep ’emfrom lookin’ at her, ’thout it was made an’ passed in Congrist.She’ll hev to git reckonciled to a-bein’ looked at.”119

“Leave her alone,” repeated Tom, quite fiercely. “I’llnot have her troubled.”

“I didn’t go to trouble her, Tom,” said Mr. Stamps,softly; and he slipped down from the counter and sidledout of the store and went home.

With Mr. Stamps Sheba always connected her firstknowledge of the fact that her protector’s temper couldbe disturbed. She had never seen him angry until shesaw Mr. Stamps rouse him to wrath on the eventful fifthbirthday, from which the first exciting events of her lifedated themselves. Up to that time she had seen only inhis great strength and broad build a power to protect andshield her own fragility and smallness from harm or fear.When he took her in his huge arms and held her at whatseemed to be an incredible height from the ordinary platformof existence, she had only felt the cautious tendernessof his touch and recognised her own safety, and ithad never occurred to her that his tremendous voice,which was so strong and deep by nature, that it mighthave been a terrible one if he had chosen to make it so,could express any other feeling than kindliness in itscheery roar.

But on this fifth birthday Tom presented himself to herchildish mind in a new light.

She had awakened early to find him standing at hersmall bedside and a new doll lying in her arms. It was abigger doll than she had ever owned before, and so gailydressed, that in her first rapture her breath quite forsookher. When she recovered it, she scrambled up, holdingher new possession in one arm and clung with the otheraround Tom’s neck.

“Oh, the lovely, lovely doll!” she cried, and then hidher face on his shoulder.120

“Because—because of the doll,” she answered, bewilderedby her own little demonstration and yet perfectin her confidence that he would understand her.

“Well,” said Tom, cheerfully, “that’s a queer thing,ain’t it? Look here, did you know it was your birthday?Five years old to-day—think of that.”

He sat down and settled her in her usual place on hisknee, her doll in her arms.

“To think,” he said, “of her setting up a birthday onpurpose to be five years old and have a doll given her.That’s a nice business, ain’t it?”

After they had breakfasted together in state, the dollwas carried into the store to be played with there. It wasa wet day, and, the air being chilled by a heavy mountainrain, a small fire was burning in the stove, and by this firethe two settled themselves to enjoy the morning together,the weather precluding the possibility of their being disturbedby many customers. But in the height of theirquiet enjoyment they were broken in upon by the soundof horse’s hoofs splashing in the mud outside and Mr.Stamps’s hat appeared above the window-sill.

It was Sheba who saw it first, and in the strength of herdesire to avoid the wearer, she formed a desperate plan.She rose so quietly that Tom, who was reading a paper,did not hear her, and, having risen, drew her small chairbehind the counter in the hope that, finding her placevacant, the visitor would not suspect her presence.

In this she was not disappointed. Having brushed themud from his feet on the porch, Mr. Stamps appeared at121the doorway, and, after his usual precautionary glanceabout him, made his way to the stove. His manner was atonce propitiatory and friendly. He drew up a chair andput his wet feet on the stove, where they kept up a comfortablehissing sound as they dried.

“Howdy, Tom,” he said, “howdy?” And from herhiding-place Sheba saw him rubbing his legs from theknee downwards as he said it, with an air of solid enjoymentwhich suggested that he was congratulating himselfupon something he had in his mind.

“You’re a lookin’ well, Tom,” he remarked. “Lord,yes, ye’re a lookin’ powerful well.”

“Lookin’ well, am I?” he answered. “Well, I’m adelicate weakly sort of fellow in general, I am, and it’sencouraging to hear that I’m looking well.”

“I wouldn’t be agin bein’ the same kind o’ weakly myself,”he said, “nor the same kind o’ delycate. You’re apowerfle hansum man, Tom.”

“Yes,” replied Tom, drily, “I’m a handsome man.That’s what carried me along this far. It’s what I’ve alwayshad to rely on—that and a knock-down intellect.”

“Folks is fond o’ sayin’ beauty ain’t but skin deep,” hesaid; “but I wouldn’t hev it no deeper myself—bein’ sothat it kivers. An’, talkin’ o’ beauty, she’s one—Lord,yes. She’s one.”

“’Tain’t a gwine to harm her, Tom,” replied Mr.Stamps, “’tain’t a gwine to harm her none. What made122me think of it was it a bein’ jest five years since she wasborn—a makin’ it her birthday an’ her jest five years old.”

“No,” replied Mr. Stamps, with true modesty of demeanour,“I ain’t ben a countin’ of it up, Tom.” Andhe drew a dirty memorandum book softly from his pocket.“I set it down at the time es it happened.”

He laid the dirty book on his knee and turned over itspages carefully as if looking for some note.

“I ain’t much on readin’ an’ writin’,” he said, “an’’rithmetick it goes kinder hard with me now an’ agin, buta man’s got to know suthin’ on ’em if he ’lows to keepanyways even. I ’low to keep even, sorter, an’ I’ve give agood deal o’ time to steddyin’ of ’em. I never went to noschool, but I’ve sot things down es I want to remember,an’ I kin count out money. I never was imposed on noneI rekin, an’ I never lost nothin’. Yere’s whar I sot itdown about her a-bein’ born an’ the woman a-dyin’ an’ hima-gwine away. Ye cayn’t read it, mebbe.” He bent forward,pointing to the open page and looking up at Tom asif he expected him to be interested. “Thar it is,” headded in his thin, piping, little voice, “even to the timeo’ day. Mornin, she told me that. ’Bout three o’clock inthe mornin’ in thet thar little front room. Ef anyone shedever want to know particular, thar it is.”

The look in Tom’s face was far from being a calm one.He fidgetted in his chair and finally rolled his paper into ahard wad and threw it at the counter as if it had been amissile.

“’Tain’t a-gwine to hurt nothin’ to hev it down,” hereplied, with an air of simplicity.

He shut it up, returned it to his pocket, and clasped hishands about his knees, while he fixed his eyes on theglimmer of red showing itself through a crack in a stove-plate.

“It’s kinder curi’s I should hev happened along by tharthis mornin’,” he remarked, reflectively.

“By thar,” he responded, cheerfully, “the Holler, Tom.An’ it ’peared to me it ’ed be kinder int’restin’ to take alook through, bein’ as this was the day as the thing kinderstarted. So I hitched my mule an’ went in.” He pauseda moment as if to enjoy his knees again.

“Thar wasn’t nothin’ thar,” Mr. Stamps continued.Then occurred another pause. “Nothin’,” he added afterit, “nothin’ particular.”

The tenderness with which he embraced his knees at thisjuncture had something like fascination in it.

“I kinder looked round,” he proceeded, “an’ if there’dben anythin’ thar I ’low I’d hev seed it. But thar wasn’t124nothin’, nothin’ but the empty rooms an’ a dead leaf or soes hed blowed in through a broken winder, an’ the pile o’ashes in the fireplace beat down with the rain as hedfell down the chimney. Mighty lonesome an’ still themashes looked; an’ thar wasn’t nothin’ but them an’ theleaves,——an’ a bit of a’ envelope.”

Tom moved his chair back. Sheba thought he wasgoing to get up suddenly. But he remained seated,perhaps because Mr. Stamps began again.

“Thar wasn’t nothin’ but them an’ the bit of a’envelope,” he remarked. “It was a-sticken in a crack o’the house, low down, like it hed ben swep’ or blowed tharan’ overlooked. I shouldn’t hev seed it”—modestly—“efI hedn’t ben a-goin’ round on my hands an’ knees.”

Then Tom rose very suddenly indeed, so suddenly thathe knocked his chair over and amazed Sheba by kicking itviolently across the store. For the moment he so far forgothimself as to be possessed with some idea of falling uponMr. Stamps with the intent to do him bodily injury. Heseized him by the shoulders and turned him about so thathe had an excellent view of his unprepossessing back.What Mr. Stamps thought it would have been difficult todiscover. Sheba fancied that when he opened his mouthhe was going to utter a cry of terror. But he did not.He turned his neck about as well as he could under thecircumstances, and looking up into Tom’s face meeklysmiled.

“Tom,” he said, “ye ain’t a-gwine ter do a thing to me,not a dern thing.”

“Ef ye was jest haaf to let drive at me, ye’d break myneck,” said Mr. Stamps, “an ye ain’t a-gwine ter do it.125Ef ye was, Tom, ye’d be a bigger fool than I took ye fer.Lemme go.”

He looked so diminutive and weak-eyed, as he madethese remarks, that it was no wonder Tom released himhelplessly, though he was obliged to thrust his hands deepinto his pockets and keep them under control.

“I thought I’d given you one lesson,” he burst forth;“I thought——”

Mr. Stamps interrupted him, continuing to argue hisside of the question, evidently feeling it well worth hiswhile to dispose of it on the spot.

“Ye weigh three hundred, Tom,” he said, “ef ye weigha pound, an’ I don’t weigh but ninety, ’n ye couldn’t handleme keerful enuf not to leave me in a fix as wouldn’t be nocredit to ye when ye was done; ’n it ’ed look kinder badfor ye to meddle with me, anyhow. An’ the madder yeget, the more particular ye’ll be not to. Thar’s whar yeare, Tom; an’ I ain’t sich a fool as not to know it.”

His perfect confidence in the strength of his position,and in Tom’s helplessness against it, was a thing to beremembered. Tom remembered it long afterwards, thoughat the moment it only roused him to greater heat.

“Now then,” he demanded, “let’s hear what you’redriving at. What I want to know is what you’re drivingat. Let’s hear.”

Mr. Stamps’s pale eyes fixed themselves with interest onhis angry face. He had seated himself in his chair again,and he watched Tom closely as he rambled on in his simple,uncomplaining way.

“Ye’re fond o’ laughin’ at me round yere at the store,Tom,” he remarked, “an’ I ain’t agin it. A man don’tmake nothin’ much by bein’ laughed at, I rekin, but hedon’t lose nothin’ nuther, an’ that’s what Iam agin. I126rekin ye laugh ’cos I kinder look like a fool—an’ I hain’tnothin’ agin thet, nuther, Lord! not by a heap. A manain’t a-gwine to lose nothin’ by lookin’ like a fool. I hain’tnever, not a cent, Tom. But I ain’t es big a fool es I look,an’ I don’t ’low ye air, uther. Thar’s whar I argy from.Ye ain’t es big a fool as ye look, an’ ye’d be in a bad fix efye was.”

“I cayn’t leave ye out, Tom,” said Mr. Stamps, “ferye’re in. Ye’d be as big a fool as ye look ef ye was doin’all this yere fer nothin’.”

“Gals,” suggested Mr. Stamps, “is plenty. An’ efye take to raisin’ ’em as this un’s ben raised, ye ain’tmakin’ much; an’ ef thar ain’t nothin’ to be made, Tom,what’s yer aim?”

“What’s yer aim, Tom?” he repeated, pleasantly, “efthar ain’t nothin’ to be made?”

Tom’s honest face flamed into red which was almostpurple, the veins swelled on his forehead, his indignationalmost deprived him of his breath. He fell into a chairwith a concussion which shook the building.

“Good—good Lord!” he exclaimed; “how I wish youweighed five hundred pounds.”

It is quite certain that if Stamps had, he would have demolishedhim utterly upon the spot, leaving him in such acondition that his remains would hardly have been a sourceof consolation to his friends. He pointed to the door.

“If you want to get out,” he said, “start. This is gettingthe better of me—and if it does——”

“Ye wouldn’t do a dern thing, Tom,” he said, peaceably,“not a dern thing.”

He sidled towards the door, and reaching it, paused toreflect, shaking his head.

“Ef thar ain’t nothin’ to be made,” he said, “ye’v gotter hev a aim, an’ what is it?”

Observing that Tom made a move in his chair, he slippedthrough the doorway rather hurriedly. Sheba thought hewas gone, but a moment later the door re-opened and hethrust his head in and spoke, not intrusively—simply as ifoffering a suggestion which might prove of interest.

“It begun with a ‘L,’” he said; “thar was a name onit, and it begun with a ‘L’.”

It was upon the evening after this interview with Mr.Stamps that Tom broached to his young companion aplan which had lain half developed in his mind for sometime.

They had gone into the back room and eaten togetherthe supper Mornin had prepared with some extra elaborationto do honour to the day, and then Sheba had playedwith her doll Lucinda while Tom looked on, somewhatneglecting his newspaper and pipe in his interest in hersmall pretence of maternity.

At last, when she had put Lucinda to sleep in thewooden cradle which had been her own, he called her tohim.

She came readily and stood at his knee, laying herhands upon it and looking up at him, as she had had ahabit of doing ever since she first stood alone.

“No,” said Tom, “not like these—bigger and brighterand prettier. With flowers on the walls and flowers on thecarpets, and all the rest to match.”

He had mentioned this bold idea to Molly Hollister theday before, and she had shown such pleasure in it, that hehad been quite elated.129

“It’s not that I need anything different,” he had said,“but the roughness and bareness don’t seem to suit her.I’ve thought it often when I’ve seen her running about.”

“Seems like thar ain’t nothin’ you don’t think of, Tom,”said Molly, admiringly.

“Well,” he admitted, “I think about her a good deal,that’s a fact. She seems to have given me a kind of imagination.I used to think I hadn’t any.”

He had imagination enough to recognise at the presentmoment in the child’s uplifted face some wistful thoughtshe did not know how to express, and he responded to itby speaking again.

Her glance wandered across the hearth to where the cradlestood in the corner with Lucinda in it. Then she lookedup at him again.

“Prettier than this,” she repeated, “with flowers. Butdon’t take this away.” The feeling which stirred herflushed her childish cheek and made her breath come andgo faster. She drew still nearer to him.

She met the look helplessly. She could not have puther vague thought into words.

“Don’t—don’t take it away,” she said again, and suddenlylaid her face upon his great open palm.

For a minute or two there was silence. Tom sat verystill and looked at the fire.

In a few days, however, it was well known for at leastfifteen miles around the Cross-roads that Tom D’Willerby130was going to build a new house, and that it was going to befitted up with great splendour with furniture purchased atBrownsboro.

“Store carpetin’ on every floor an’ paper on every wall,”said Dave Hollister to Molly when he went home afterhearing the news. “An’ Sheby’s a-goin’ with him tochoose ’em. He says he’ll bet fifty dollars she has hernotions about things, an’ he’s a-goin to hev ’em carriedout, fer it’s all fer her, an’ she’s the one to be pleased.”

It was not many weeks before the rooms were so nearcompletion that the journey to Brownsboro was made, andit was upon this day of her first journeying out into theworld that Sheba met with her first adventure. She rememberedlong afterwards the fresh brightness of the earlymorning when she was lifted into the buggy which stoodbefore the door, while Mornin ran to and fro in the agreeablebustle attendant upon forgetting important articlesand being reminded of them by shocks. When Tomclimbed into his seat and they drove away, the store-porchseemed quite crowded with those who watched their triumphantdeparture. Sheba looked back and saw Morninshowing her teeth and panting for breath, while MollyHollister waved the last baby’s sunbonnet, holding itsdenuded owner in her arms. The drive was a long one,but the travellers enjoyed it from first to last. Tom foundhis companion’s conversation quite sufficient entertainmentto while away the time, and when at intervals she refreshedherself from Mornin’s basket and fell asleep, he enjoyeddriving along quietly while he held her small, peacefullyrelaxed body on his knee, quite as much as another manmight have enjoyed a much more exciting occupation.

“There’s an amount of comfort in it,” he said, reflectively,as the horse plodded along on the shady side of the131road, “an amount of comfort that’s astonishing. I don’tknow, but I’d like to have her come to a standstill justabout now and never grow any older or bigger. But Ithought the same thing three years ago, that’s a fact.And when she gets to blooming out and enjoying herbits of girl finery there’ll be pleasure in that too, plentyof it.”

She awakened from one of these light sleeps just asthey were entering Brownsboro, and her delight and aweat the dimensions and business aspect of the place pleasedTom greatly, and was the cause of his appearing a perfectmine of reliable information on the subject of large townsand the habits of persons residing in them.

Brownsboro contained at least six or seven hundredinhabitants, and, as Court was being held, there were agood many horses to be seen tied to the hitching-posts;groups of men were sitting before the stores and on thesidewalks, while something which might almost havebeen called a crowd was gathered before the Court-houseitself.

Sheba turned her attention to the tavern they wereapproaching with a view to spending the night, and herfirst glance alighted upon an object of interest.

He was not such a very big boy, though he was perhapsfourteen years old and tall of his age. He stood upon theplank-walk which ran at the front of the house, andleaned against the porch with his hands in his pockets.He was a slender, lithe boy, well dressed in a suit of finewhite linen. He had a dark, spirited face, and long-lasheddark eyes, but, notwithstanding these advantages,he looked far from amiable as he stood lounging discontentedlyand knitting his brows in the sun.132

But Sheba admired him greatly and bent forward thatshe might see him better, regarding him with deep interest.

Tom scarcely heard her. He was looking at the boyhimself, and his face wore a troubled and bewildered expression.His gaze was so steady that at length the objectof it felt its magnetic influence and lifted his eyes. Thathis general air of discontent did not belie him, and thathe was by no means an amiable boy, was at once proved.He did not bear the scrutiny patiently, his face darkenedstill more, and he scowled without any pretence of concealingthe fact.

“He’d be a handsome fellow if he hadn’t such an evillook,” he said. “I must have seen him before; I wonderwho he is?”

There were many strangers in the house, principallyattenders upon the Court being held. Court week was abusy time for Brownsboro, which upon such occasionsassumed a bustling and festive air, securing its friendsfrom less important quarters, engaging in animated discussionsof the cases in hand, and exhibiting an astonishingamount of legal knowledge, using the most mysticalterms in ordinary conversation, and secretly feeling itsimportance a good deal.

“Sparkses” was the name of the establishment at whichthe travellers put up, and, being the better of the twotaverns in which the town rejoiced, Sparkses presentedindeed an enlivening spectacle. It was a large framehouse with the usual long verandah at the front, uponwhich verandah there were always to be seen customers inrocking-chairs, their boots upon the balustrade, theirhands clasped easily on the tops of their heads. During133Court week these customers with their rocking-chairs andboots seemed to multiply themselves indefinitely, and,becoming exhilarated by the legal business transactedaround them, bestirred themselves to jocularity and argument,thus adding to the liveliness of the occasion.

At such periods Mr. Sparkes was a prominent feature.Attired in an easy costume seemingly composed principallyof suspenders, and bearing a pipe in his hand, hepermeated the atmosphere with a business-like air whichhad long stamped him in the minds of his rural guests asa person of administrative abilities rarely equalled andnot at all to be surpassed.

“He’s everywhar on the place, is Sparkes,” had beensaid of him. “He’s at dinner, ’n supper, ’n breakfast, ’nout on the porch, ’n in the bar, an’ kinder sashiatin’ throughthe whole thing. Thet thar tavern wouldn’t be nothin’ efhe wasn’t thar.”

It was not to be disputed that he appeared at dinner andbreakfast and supper, and that on each appearance he disposedof a meal of such proportions as caused his countenanceto deepen in colour and assume a swelled aspect,which was, no doubt, extremely desirable under the circumstances,and very good for the business, though it couldscarcely be said to lighten the labour of Mrs. Sparkes andher daughters, who apparently existed without any moresubstantial sustenance than the pleasure of pouring out cupsof coffee and tea and glasses of milk, and cutting slices ofpie, of which they possibly partook through some processof absorption.

To the care of Mrs. Sparkes Tom confided his chargewhen, a short time after their arrival, he made his first pilgrimagefor business purposes.

“She’s been on the road all day,” he said, “and I won’t134take her out till to-morrow; so if you don’t mind, I’ll leaveher with you until I come back. She’ll be all right andhappy, won’t you, Sheba?”

Secretly Sheba felt some slight doubt of this; but in herdesire to do him credit, she summed up all her courageand heroically answered that she would, and so was borneoff to the dining-room, where two girls were cutting breadand slicing ham for supper. They were Mrs. Sparkes’sdaughters, and when they saw the child, dropped theirknives and made a good-natured rush at her, for which shewas not at all prepared.

“Now, mother,” they cried, “whar’s she from, ’n whodoes she b’long to?”

Mrs. Sparkes cast a glance at her charge, which Shebacaught and was puzzled by. It was a mysterious glance,with something of cautious pity in it.

“Set her up in a cheer, Luce,” she said, “’n give her apiece of cake. Don’t ye want some, honey?”

Sheba regarded her with uplifted eyes as she replied.The glance had suggested to her mind that Mrs. Sparkeswas sorry for her, and she was anxious to know why.

She sat quite still when they put her into a chair, butshe did not remove her eyes from Mrs. Sparkes.

“She don’t b’long to nobody, gals,” she said. “It’s thetlittle critter big Tom D’Willerby from Talbot’s Cross-roadstook to raise.”

“Ye don’t say. Pore little thing,” exclaimed the girls.And while one of them stooped to kiss her cheek, the otherhurriedly produced a large red apple, which she laid on thelong table before her.135

But Sheba did not touch it. To hear that she belongedto nobody was a mysterious shock to her. There had neverseemed any doubt before that she belonged to her UncleTom, but Mrs. Sparkes had quite separated her from himin her statement. Suddenly she began to feel a little tired,and not quite so happy as she had been. But she sat stilland listened, rendered rather tremulous by the fact thatthe speakers seemed so sure they had reason to pity her.

“Ef ever thar was a mystery,” Mrs. Sparkes proceeded,“thet thar was one; though Molly Hollister says D’Willerbydon’t like it talked over. Nobody knowed ’em, noteven their names, an’ nobody knowed whar they come from.She died, ’n he went away—nobody knowed whar; ’n thechild wasn’t two days old when he done it. Ye cayn’t tellme thar ain’t a heap at the back o’ that. They say D’Willerby’sjest give himself up to her ever since, an’ ’tain’t nowonder, nuther, for she’s a’ out ’n out beauty, ain’t she,now? Just look at her eyes. Why don’t ye eat yer apple,honey?”

Sheba turned towards the window and looked out on theporch. A bewildering sense of desolation had fallen uponher.

“I don’t want it,” she said; and her small voice had astrange sound even in her own ears. “I want Uncle Tom.Let me go out on the porch and see if he’s coming.”

“Lordy, no!” answered the mother; “we ain’t saidnothin’. Ye kin go ef ye want to, Sheba,” she added,cheerfully. “Thar’s a little rocking-cheer that ye kin setin. Help her down, Luce.”136

But she had already slipped down and found her way tothe door opening out on to the street. The porch was desertedfor a wonder, the reason being that an unusuallyinteresting case was being argued in the Court-houseacross the street, where groups of men were hanging aboutthe doors. The rocking-chair stood in a corner, butSheba did not sit down in it. She went to the steps andstood there, looking out with a sense of pain and lonelinessstill hanging over her; and at last, without knowing why,only feeling that they had a dreary sound and containeda mystery which somehow troubled her, she began to sayover softly the words the woman had used.

“She died and he went away, nobody knows where.She died and he went away, nobody knows where.”

Why those words should have clung to her and madeher feel for the moment desolate and helpless, it would bedifficult to say, but as she repeated them half unconsciously,the figures of the woman who had died and theman who had wandered so far away alone, that he seemedto have wandered out of life itself, cast heavy shadows onher childish heart.

“I am glad,” she whispered, “that it was not UncleTom that went away.” And she looked up the street withan anxious sigh.

Just at this moment she became conscious that she wasnot alone. In bending forward that she might see thebetter, she caught sight of someone leaning against thebalustrades which had before concealed him—the boy, inshort, who was standing just as he had stood when theydrove up, and who looked as handsome in a darkling wayas human boy could look.

For a few seconds the child regarded him with batedbreath. The boys she had been accustomed to seeing were137not of this type, and were more remarkable for gifts lessornamental than beauty. This boy with his graceful limbsand haughtily carried head, filled her with awe and admiration.She admired him so much, that, though her firstimpulse was to run away, she did not obey it, and almostimmediately he glanced up and saw her. When thisoccurred, she was greatly relieved to find that his gloomdid not lead him to treat her unkindly, indeed, he wasamiable enough to address her with an air of one relentingand condescending somewhat to her youth.

He glanced across the street, still keeping his hands inhis pockets and preserving his easy attitude.

“Perhaps he is,” she replied, and added, shyly, “Areyou waiting for anyone?”

He frowned so darkly at first, that she was quite alarmedand wished that she had run away as she had at first intended;but he answered, after a pause:

He did not even speak as the boys at the Cross-roadsspoke. His voice had a clear, soft ring, and his mode ofpronunciation was one Tom had spent much time in endeavouringto impress upon herself as being more desirablethan that she had heard most commonly usedaround her. Up to this time she had frequently wonderedwhy she must speak differently from Mornin and MollyHollister, but now she suddenly began to appreciate thewisdom of his course. It was very much nicer to speak asthe boy spoke.138

“I haven’t any father,” she ventured, “or any mother.That’s queer, isn’t it?” And as she said it, Mrs. Sparkes’swords rushed into her mind again, and she looked up thestreet towards the sunset and fell into a momentary reverie,whispering them to herself.

“It was only what they said in there,” she replied,pointing towards the dining-room.

She repeated the words slowly, regarding him fixedly,because she wondered if they would have any effect uponhim.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, staring at her with hishandsome, long-lashed eyes. “Lots of people die and goaway.” Then, after a pause, in which he dropped hiseyes, he added:

“Did she?” answered Sheba, wondering why he lookedso gloomy again all at once. “I don’t think I ever hadany mother, but I have Uncle Tom.”

He stared at her again, and there was silence for a fewminutes. This he broke by asking a question.

“Why, that’s my name,” he said, surprisedly. “Myname is De Willoughby. I—Hallo, Neb——”

This last in a tone of proprietorship to a negro servant,who was advancing towards them from a side-door andwho hurried up with rather a frightened manner.139

“Ye’d best get ready ter start right away, Mars Ralph,”he said. “He’s wake at las’, an’ der’s de debbil to pay,a-cussin’ an’ roarin’ an’ wantin’ opium; an’ he wants toknow whar ye bin an’ what ye mean, an’ ses de hosses mus’be at de do’ in ten minits. Oh, de cunnel he’s in dewustest kin’ o’ humour, dar’s no doin’ nuffin right ferhim.”

“Tell him to go to h——” burst forth the lad, flyinginto a rage and looking so wickedly passionate in a boyishway that Sheba was frightened again. “Tell him I won’tgo until I’m ready; I’ve been dragged round till I’m sickof it, and——”

In the midst of his tempest he checked himself, turnedabout and walked suddenly into the house, the negro followinghim in evident trepidation.

His departure was so sudden that Sheba fancied hewould return and say something more to her. Angry ashe looked, she wished very much that he would, and sostood waiting wistfully.

But she was doomed to disappointment. In a fewminutes the negro brought to the front three horses, andalmost immediately there appeared at the door a tall,handsome man, who made his way to the finest horse andmounted it with a dashing vault into the saddle.

He had a dark aquiline face like the boy’s, and wore agreat sweeping mustache which hid his mouth. The boyfollowed, looking wonderfully like him, as he sprang intohis own saddle with the same dare-devil vault.

No one spoke a word, and he did not even look at Sheba,though she watched him with admiring and longing eyes.As soon as they were fairly in their seats the horses, whichwere fine creatures, needing neither whip nor spur, sprangforward with a light, easy movement, and so cantered down140the street towards the high road which stretched itselfover a low hill about a quarter of a mile away.

Sheba laid her cheek against the wooden pillar andlooked after them with a return of the sense of lonelinessshe had felt before.

“He went away,” she whispered, “nobody knowswhere—nobody knows where.”

She felt Tom’s hand laid on her shoulder as she said thewords, and turned her face upward with a consciousnessof relief, knowing she would not be lonely any longer.

“She’s in there,” Sheba answered, eagerly, “and I’vebeen talking to the boy.”

“To the one we saw,” she replied, holding his handand feeling her cheeks flush with the excitement of relatingher adventure. “The nice boy. His name is likemine—and his mother died. He said it was De Willoughby,and it is like mine. He has gone away with hisfather. See them riding.”

He dropped her hand and, taking a step forward, stoodwatching the receding travellers. He watched them untilthey reached the rising ground. The boy had fallen a fewyards behind. Presently the others passed the top of thehill, and, as they did so, he turned in his saddle as if hehad suddenly remembered something, and glanced back atthe tavern porch.

“He is looking for me,” cried Sheba, and ran out intothe brightness of the setting sun, happy because he hadnot quite forgotten her.

He saw her, waved his hand with a careless, boyishgesture and disappeared over the brow of the hill.141

Tom sat down suddenly on the porch-step. WhenSheba turned to him he was pale and his forehead wasdamp with sweat. He spoke aloud, but to himself, not toher.

“Good Lord,” he said, “it’s De Courcy and—and theboy. That was why I knew his face.”

When they went in to supper later on, there was a greatdeal of laughing and talking going on down the long table.Mr. Sparkes was finishing a story as they entered, and hewas finishing it in a loud voice.

“They’re pretty well known,” he said; “an’ the Colonel’sthe worst o’ the lot. The nigger told me thar’dbeen a reg’lar flare-up at the Springs. Thar was a ball an’he got on a tear an’ got away from ’em an’ bust right intothe ballroom an’ played Hail Columby. He’s a pop’larman among the ladies, is the Colonel, but a mixtry ofwhiskey an’ opium is apt to spile his manners. Niggersays he’s the drunkest man when he is drunk that theLord ever let live. Ye cayn’t do nothin’ with him. Theboy was thar, an’ they say ’twas a sight ter see him. He’shis daddy’s son, an’ a bigger young devil never lived, theytell me. He’s not got to the whiskey an’ opium yet, an’he jes’ takes his’n out in pride an’ temper. Nigger said hejest raved an’ tore that night—went into the Colonel’sroom an’ cussed an’ dashed round like he was gone mad.Kinder shamed, I reckin. But Lord, he’ll be at it himselfin ten years from now. It’s in the blood.”

“Who’s that you’re talking of?” asked Tom from hisend of the table. He had not recovered his colour yet andlooked pale as he put the question.

“Colonel De Willoughby of Delisleville,” answered Mr.Sparkes. “Any kin o’ your’n? Name’s sorter like. He142jest left here this evenin’ with his boy an’ nigger. They’veben to Whitebriar, an’ they’re on their way home.”

“I saw them ride over the hill,” said Tom. “I thoughtI wasn’t mistaken in the man. I’ve seen him before.”

But he made a very poor supper, and a shadow seemedto have fallen upon his cheery mood of the morning.Sheba recognised this and knew, too, that her new friendand his father were in some vague way responsible for it,and the knowledge oppressed her so that when they sat outupon the porch together after the meal was over, she in heraccustomed place on his knee, she grew sad under it herselfand, instead of talking as usual, leaned her small headagainst his coat and watched the few stars whose brightnessthe moon had not shut out.

She went to bed early, but did not sleep well, dreamingdreary dreams of watching the travellers riding away towardsthe sunset, and of hearing the woman talk again.One of the talkers seemed at last to waken her with hervoice, and she sat up in bed suddenly and found that itwas Tom, who had roused her by speaking to himself in alow tone as he stood in a flood of moonlight before thewindow.

Sheba burst into a little sob, stretching out her hands tohim without comprehending her own emotion.

“And he went away,” she cried, “nobody knows where—nobodyknows where—” And even when he came toher hurriedly and sat down on the bedside, soothing herand taking her in his arms to sink back into slumber, shesobbed drearily two or three times, though, once in hisclasp, she felt, as she had always done, the full sense ofcomfort, safety, and rest.

The New England town of Willowfield was a place ofgreat importance. Its importance—religious, intellectual,and social—was its strong point. It took the liberty of assertingthis with unflinching dignity. Other towns mightendeavour to struggle to the front, and, indeed, did so endeavour,but Willowfield calmly held its place and remainedunmoved. Its place always had been at the front from thefirst, and there it took its stand. It had, perhaps, beenhinted that its sole title to this position lay in its own statelyassumption: but this, it may be argued, was sheer envy andentirely unworthy of notice.

“Willowfield is not very large or very rich,” its leadingold lady said, “but it is important and has always been consideredso.”

There was society in Willowfield, society which had takenup its abiding-place in three or four streets and confined itselfto developing its importance in half a dozen families—oldfamilies. They were always spoken of as the “old families,”and, to be a member of one of them, even a second orthird cousin of weak mind and feeble understanding, wasto be enclosed within the magic circle outside of which wasdarkness, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. There were theStornaways, who had owned the button factory for nearly ageneration and a half—which was a long time; the Downings,who had kept the feed-store for quite thirty years,and the Burtons, who had been doctors for almost as long,144not to mention the Larkins, who had actually founded theWillowfieldTimes, and kept it going, which had scarcelybeen expected of them at the outset.

Their moral, mental, and social gifts notwithstanding,there was nothing connected with the Stornaways, the Downings,the Burtons, and the Larkins of such importance astheir antiquity. The uninformed outsider, on hearing itdescanted upon, might naturally have been betrayed into themomentary weakness of expecting to see Mr. Downing moulderaway, and little old Doctor Burton crumble into dust.

“They belong,” it was said, with the temperateness oftrue dignity, “to our old families, and that is something,you know, even in America.”

“It has struck me,” an observing male visitor once remarked,“that there are a good many women in Willowfield,and that altogether it has a feminine tone.”

It was certainly true that among the Stornaways, theDownings, the Burtons, and the Larkins, the prevailing tonewas feminine; and as the Stornaways, the Downings, theBurtons, and the Larkins comprised Willowfield society, andwithout its society Willowfield lost its significance, the observingmale visitor may not have been far wrong. If mistakeswere made in Willowfield society, they were alwaysmade by the masculine members of it. It was Mr. Stornawaywho had at one time been betrayed into the blunder of invitingto a dinner-party at his house a rather clever youngbook-keeper in his employ, and it was Doctor Burton whohad wandered still more glaringly from the path of rectitudeby taking a weak, if amiable, interest in a little music teacherwith a sweet, tender voice, even going so far as to requesthis family to call upon her and ask her to take tea withthem. It was Mr. Downing, who, when this last incident145occurred and created some sensation, had had the temerityto intimate that he thought the Doctor was entirely in theright; though, to be sure, he had afterwards been led to falterin this opinion and subside into craven silence, being alittle gentleman of timorous and yielding nature, and ratheroverborne by a large and powerful feminine majority in hisown household. Mr. Larkin was, it is to be regretted, theworst of the recreant party, being younger and more unmanageable,having not only introduced to public notice certaininsignificant though somewhat talented persons in the shapeof young men and women who talked well, or sang well,or wielded lively pens, but had gone to the length of standingby them unflinchingly, demanding civility for them at thehands of his own family of women in such a manner asstruck a deadly blow at the very foundations of the socialstructure. But Mr. Larkin—he was known as Jack Larkinto an astonishing number of people—was a bold man bynature and given to deeds of daring, from the fatal consequencesof which nothing but the fact that he was a memberof one of the “old families” could have saved him. As hewas a part—and quite a large part—of one of these venerablehouseholds, and, moreover, knew not the fear of man—orwoman—his failings could be referred to as “eccentricities.”

“Mr. Larkin,” Mrs. Stornaway frequently observed, withlong-suffering patience, “is talented but eccentric. Youare never quite sure what he will do next.”

Mrs. Stornaway was the head and front of all Willowfield’ssocial efforts, and represented the button factory witha lofty grace and unbending dignity of demeanour whichwere the admiration and envy of all aspirants to social fame.It was said that Mrs. Stornaway had been a beauty in heryouth, and there were those who placed confidence in the146rumour. Mrs. Stornaway did so herself, and it had beenintimated that it was this excellent lady who had vouchedfor the truth of the statement in the first instance; but thisreport having been traced to a pert young relative who detestedand derided her, might have had its origin in youthfuldisrespect and malice.

At present Mrs. Stornaway was a large blonde womanwhose blondness was not fairness, and whose size was notroundness. She was the leader of all religious and charitablemovements, presiding with great vigour over church matters,fairs, concerts, and sewing societies. The minister ofher church submitted himself to her advice and guidance.All the modest members of the choir quailed and quaveredbefore her, while even the bold ones, meeting her eye whenengaged in worldly conversation between their musical efforts,momentarily lost their interest and involuntarilystraightened themselves.

Towards her family Mrs. Stornaway performed her dutywith unflinching virtue. She had married her six daughtersin a manner at once creditable to herself, themselves, andWillowfield. Five of them had been rather ordinary, depressed-lookinggirls, who, perhaps, were not sorry to obtaintheir freedom. The sixth had narrowly escaped being doweredwith all the charms said to have adorned Mrs. Stornaway’sown youth.

“Agnes is very like what I was at her age,” said hermother, with dignity; and perhaps she was, though no onehad been able to trace any resemblance which had defied theravages of time.

Agnes had made a marriage which in some points wasbetter than those of her sisters. She had married a brilliantman, while the other five had been obliged to make the best147of things as far as brilliancy was concerned. People alwayssaid of John Baird that he was a brilliant man and thata great career lay before him. He was rather remarkable fora curious subtle distinction of physical good looks. He wasnot of the common, straight-featured, personable type. Ithad been said by the artistic analyst of form and line thathis aspect did not belong to his period, that indeed hisemotional, spirited face, with its look of sensitiveness andrace, was of the type once connected with fine old steelengravings of young poets not quite beyond the days ofpowdered hair and frilled shirt-bosoms.

“It is absurd that he should have been born in Americaand in these days,” a brilliant person had declared. “Healways brings to my mind the portraits in delightful oldannuals, ‘So-and-so—at twenty-five.’”

His supple ease of movement and graceful length of limbgave him an air of youth. He was one of the creatures towhom the passage of years would mean but little, but addedcharm and adaptability. His eyes were singularly livingthings—the eyes that almost unconsciously entreat andwhose entreaty touches one; the fine, irregular outline ofhis profile was the absolute expression of the emotional atwar with itself, the passionate, the tender, the sensitive, andcomplex. The effect of these things was almost the effectof peculiar physical beauty, and with this he combined theallurements of a compelling voice and an enviable sense ofthe fitness of things. He never lost a thought through theinability to utter it. When he had left college, he had leftburdened with honours and had borne with him the enthusiasticadmiration of his fellow-students. He had earnedand worn his laurels with an ease and grace which wouldbe remembered through years to come.148

“It’s something,” it was once said, “to have known afellow to whom things came so easily.”

When he had entered the ministry, there had been somewonder expressed among the men who had known him best,but when he preached his first sermon at Willowfield, wherethere was a very desirable church indeed, with whose ministerMrs. Stornaway had become dissatisfied, and who in consequencewas to be civilly removed, the golden apple fellat once into his hand.

Before he had arrived he had been spoken of rather slightinglyas “the young man,” but when he rose in the pulpiton the eventful Sunday morning, such a thrill ran throughthe congregation as had not stirred it at its devotions formany a summer day. Mrs. Stornaway mentally decided forhim upon the spot.

“He is of one of our oldest families,” she said. “Thisis what Willowfield wants.”

He dined with the Stornaways that day, and when he enteredthe parlour the first figure his eyes fell upon was thatof Agnes Stornaway, dressed in white muslin, with whiteroses in her belt. She was a tall girl, with a willowy figureand a colourless fairness of skin, but when her mother calledher to her side and Baird touched her hand, she blushed insuch a manner that Mrs. Stornaway was a little astonished.Scarcely a year afterward she became Mrs. Baird, and peoplesaid she was a very fortunate girl, which was possibly true.

Her husband did not share the fate of most ministers whohad presided over Mrs. Stornaway’s church. His power overhis congregation increased every year. His name began tobe known in the world of literature; he was called uponto deliver in important places the lectures he had deliveredto his Willowfield audiences, and the result was one startling149triumph after another. There was every indication of thefact that a career was already marked out for him.

Willowfield looked forward with trepidation to the timewhen the great world which stood ready to give him famewould absorb him altogether, but in the meantime it exertedall its power of fascination, and was so far successful thatthe Reverend John Baird felt that his lines had indeed fallenin pleasant places.

But after the birth of her little daughter his wife was notstrong, and was so long in regaining vitality that in thechild’s second year she was ordered abroad by the physician.At this time Baird’s engagements were such that he couldnot accompany her, and accordingly he remained in America.The career was just opening up its charmed vistas to him;his literary efforts were winning laurels; he was called uponto lecture in Boston and New York, and he never rose beforean audience without at once awakening an enthusiasm.

Mrs. Baird went to the south of France with her childand nurse and a party of friends, and remained there fora year. At the termination of that time, just as she thoughtof returning home, she was taken seriously ill. Her husbandwas sent for and went at once to join her. In a few monthsshe had died of rapid decline. She had been a delicategirl, and a far-off taint of consumption in her family bloodhad reasserted itself. But though Mrs. Stornaway bewailedher with diffuse and loud pathos and for a year swathed heropulence of form in deepest folds and draperies of crape,the quiet fairness and slightness which for some five andtwenty years had been known as Agnes Stornaway, had beena personality not likely to be a marked and long-lingeringmemory.

The child was placed with a motherly friend in Paris.150For a month after his wife’s death Baird had been feverishly,miserably eager to return to America. Those abouthim felt that the blow which had fallen upon him mightaffect his health seriously. He seemed possessed by a desperate,morbid desire to leave the scene of the calamity behindhim. He was restless and feverish in his anxiety, andscarcely able to endure the delay which the arrangementof his affairs made necessary. He had not been well whenhe had left Willowfield, and during his watching by his wife’sbedside he had grown thin and restless-eyed.

“I want to get home. I must get home,” he would exclaim,as if involuntarily. His entire physical and mentalcondition were strained and unnatural. His wife’s doctor,who had become his own doctor as his health deteriorated,was not surprised, on arriving one day, to find him prostratedwith nervous fever. He was ill for months, and he rose fromhis sick-bed a depressed shadow of his former self andquite unable to think of returning to his charge, even if hisold desire had not utterly left him with his fever. He wasabsent from Willowfield for two years, and when at lengthhe turned his face homeward, it was with no eagerness. Hehad passed through one of those phases which change aman’s life and being. If he had been a rich man he wouldhave remained away and would have lived in London, seeingmuch of the chief continental cities. As it was, he mustat least temporarily return to Willowfield and take with himhis little girl.

On the day distinguished by his return to his people, muchsubdued excitement prevailed in Willowfield. During thewhole of the previous week Mrs. Stornaway’s carriage hadpaid daily visits to the down-town stores. There was a flourishingNew England thrift among the Stornaways, the Larkins,151the Downings, and the Burtons, which did not allowof their delegating the ordering of their households to assistants.Most of them were rigorous housewives, keenat a bargain and sharp of tongue when need be, and therewas rarely any danger of their getting less than their money’sworth.

To celebrate his arrival, Mrs. Stornaway was to give anevening party which was to combine congratulatory welcomewith a touch of condolence for the past and assurance forthe future.

“We must let him see,” said Mrs. Stornaway, “that Willowfieldhas its attractions.”

Its attractions did not present themselves as vividly toJohn Baird as might have been hoped, when he descendedfrom the train at the depot. He had spent two or threedays in Boston with a view to taking his change gradually,but he found himself not as fully prepared for Willowfieldas he could have wished. He was not entirely prepared forMrs. Stornaway, who hurried towards them with exultationon her large, stupid face, and, after effusive embraces, bustledwith them towards an elderly woman who had evidentlyaccompanied her.

“See, here’s Miss Amory Starkweather!” she exclaimed.“She came with me to meet you. Just see how Annie’sgrown, Miss Amory.”

Miss Amory was a thin woman with a strong-featuredcountenance and deep-set, observing eyes. They were eyeswhose expression suggested that they had made many painfuldiscoveries in the course of their owner’s life.

“We’re so delighted,” Mrs. Stornaway announced, as ifto the bystanders. “Everybody in Willowfield is so delightedto have you back again. The church has not seemedthe same place. The man who took your place—Mr. Jeramy,you know—you haven’t any idea how unpopular——”

“Excuse me,” said Baird, “I must speak to Latimer.Where is Latimer, Annie?”

“Excuse me,” said Baird again, and turning back towardsthe platform, he disappeared among the crowd with Annie,who had clung to his hand.

“Why, he’s gone!” proclaimed Mrs. Stornaway. “Butwhere’s he gone? Why didn’t he stay? Who’s Latimer?”

“Latimer!” Miss Amory echoed, “you ought to knowhim. His family lives in Willowfield. He is the man whowas coming home to take charge of the little church at Janway’sMills. He has evidently crossed the Atlantic withthem.”

“Well, now, I declare,” proclaimed Mrs. Stornaway. “Itmust be the man who took his sister to Europe. It was akind of absurd thing. She died away—the girl did, andpeople wondered why he did not come back and how helived. Why, yes, that must be the man.” And she turnedto look about for him.

“They’re quite common people,” commented Mrs. Stornaway,still staring. “They live in a little house in a sidestreet. They had very silly ideas about the girl. Theythought she was a genius and sent her to the School of Art153in Boston, but it wasn’t long before her health failed her.Ah! I guess that must be the man talking to Mr. Baird andAnnie. He looks as if he would go off in a consumption.”

He was a tall, hollow-chested man, with a dark, sallowface and an ungainly figure. There were suggestions of bothill-health and wretchedness in his appearance, and his mannerwas awkward and embarrassed. Two human beings moreutterly unlike each other than himself and the man who heldhis hand could not possibly have been found. It was Bairdwho held his hand, not he Baird’s, and it was Baird whoseemed to speak while he listened, while with his free handhe touched the hair of the child Annie.

“Well,” remarked Mrs. Stornaway, “Mr. Baird seems tohave taken a fancy to him. I don’t think he’s attractivemyself. Are they going to talk to him all day?”

He was going. Baird had released his hand and he waslooking in a gloomy, awkward way at Annie, as if he didnot know how to make his adieux. But Annie, who wasa simple child creature, solved the difficulty for him withhappy readiness. She flung both her small arms about hisungainly body and held up her face.

Latimer started and flushed. He looked down at her andthen glanced rather timidly at Baird.

Latimer bent himself to the child’s height and kissed her.The act was without grace, and when he stood upright hewas more awkward and embarrassed than ever. But thecaress was not a cold or rough one, and when he turnedand strode away the flush was still on his sallow cheek.

The Stornaway parlours were very brilliant that eveningin a Willowfield sense. Not a Burton, a Larkin, or a Downingwas missing, even Miss Amory Starkweather being present.Miss Amory Starkweather was greatly respected bythe Stornaways, the Downings, the Larkins, and the Burtons,the Starkweathers having landed upon Plymouth Rock soearly and with such a distinguished sense of their own importanceas to lead to the impression in weak minds thatthey had not only founded that monumental corner-stoneof ancestry, but were personally responsible for the Mayflower.This gentlewoman represented to the humoroussomething more of the element of comedy than she representedto herself. She had been born into a world too narrowand provincial for the development of the powers born withher. She had been an ugly girl and an ugly woman, markedby the hopeless ugliness of a long, ill-proportioned face,small eyes, and a nose too large and high—that uglinesswhich even love’s eyes can scarcely ameliorate into gooddrawing.

The temperament attached to these painful disabilitieshad been warm and strongly womanly. Born a centuryor so earlier, in a French Court, or any great world vividwith picturesque living, she would in all probability havebeen a remarkable personage, her ugliness a sort of distinction;but she had been born in Willowfield, and had livedits life and been bound by its limits. She had been comfortably155well off—she had a large square house with a garden,an income sufficient to provide for extremely respectableexistence in Willowfield, but not large enough to allowof experiments with the outside world. She had never meta man whom she could have loved, who would have lovedher, and she was essentially—though Willowfield wouldnever have dreamed it—a woman who should have lovedand mated. A lifetime of narrow, unstimulating years andthwarted instincts had made age treat her ill. She was athin woman with burning eyes, and a personality peoplewere afraid of.

She had always found an interest in John Baird. Whenhe had come to Willowfield she had seen in him that elementwhich her whole long life had lacked. His emotional potentialitieshad wakened her imagination. If she had been ayoung woman she knew that she might have fallen tragicallyand hopelessly in love with him; as an old womanshe found it well worth her while to watch him and speculateupon him. When he had become engaged to AgnesStornaway, she had watched him and secretly wondered howthe engagement would end; when it had ended in marriageshe had not wondered, but she had seen many things otherpeople did not see. “He is not in love with her,” had beenher mental decision, “but he is emotional, and he is in lovewith her being in love with him. There is no foretellingwhat will come of it.”

Baird had found himself attracted by Miss Amory. Hedid not know that if she had been young she would, despiteher ugliness, have had a powerful feminine effect on him.He used to go and talk to her, and he was not conscious thathe went when he was made restless by a lack of somethingin the mental atmosphere about him. He could talk to her156as he could not talk to the rest of Willowfield. She readand thought and argued with herself, and as a product ofa provincial dogmatic New England town was a curious development.

“Were you once a brilliant, wicked, feminine mover ofthings in some old French court?” he said to her once.

They had been plunging deep into the solving of unsolvableproblems, and she turned her burning old eyes on himas she answered.

“God knows what I was,” she said, “but it was nothinglike this—nothing like this—and I was not wicked.”

“Yes, I broke laws,” she agreed; “but they were hideouslaws—better broken than kept.”

She had been puzzled by the fact that after his wife lefthim he had had a restless period and had seemed to passthrough a miserable phase, such as a man suffering fromlove and longing might endure.

“Has he fallen in love with her because she has goneaway?” she wondered; “men are capable of it at times.”

But later she decided mentally that this was not his specialcase. She saw, however, that he was passing through somemental crisis which was a dangerous struggle. He was restlessand often away from Willowfield for two or three daysat a time.

“To provide the place with orthodox doctrine once a weekis more than he can bear, and to be bored to extinction intothe bargain makes him feel morbid,” she said to herself.“I hope he won’t begin to be lured by things which mightproduce catastrophe.”

Once he came and spent a long, hot summer evening with157her, and when he went away she had arrived at anotherdecision, and it made her wretched.

“He is lured,” she thought. “I cannot help him, andGod knows Willowfield could not. After this—perhaps theDeluge.”

She saw but little of him for two months, and then hewas called across the Atlantic by his wife’s illness and leftthe place.

“About Willowfield,” he answered, holding her hand andlaughing a little gruesomely. “There will be a thrill in itwhen one is three thousand miles away. Tell me about thechurch—about the people—who comes, who goes—yourown points of view will make it all worth while. Willyou?” almost as if a shade anxiously.

She kept her word, and the letters were worth reading. Itwas, as he had said, her points of view which gave interestto the facts that unexciting people had died, married, orbeen born. Her sketch of the trying position of the unpopularman who filled his pulpit and was unfavourablycompared with him every Sunday morning was full of astuteanalysis and wit; her little picture of the gloomy youngtheological student, Latimer, his efforts for his sister, andher innocent, pathetic death in a foreign land had a wonderfulrealism of touch. She had by pure accident made thechild’s acquaintance and had been strongly touched and158moved. She did not write often, but he read her lettersmany times over.

Upon this evening of his home-coming she thought he hadsometimes the look of a man who felt that he walked in adream. More than once she saw him involuntarily pass hishand with a swift movement over his eyes as if his owntouch might waken him. It was true he did not greatlyenjoy the festivities. His occasional views of Mrs. Stornawayas she rambled among her guests, talking to themabout him in audible tones, were trying. She dispensedhim with her hospitalities, as it were, and was diffuse uponthe extent of his travels and the attention paid him, to eachmember of the company in turn. He knew when she wasspeaking of himself and when of her daughter, and thealternate decorous sentiment and triumphant pleasuremarked on her broad face rasped him to the extent of makinghim fear lest he might lose his temper.

“She is a stupid woman,” he found himself saying halfaloud once; “the most stupid woman I think I ever met.”

Towards the end of the evening, as he entered the room,he found himself obliged to pass her. She stood near thedoor, engaged in animated conversation with Mrs. Downing.She had hit upon a new and absorbing topic, which had theadditional charge of savouring of local gossip.

“Why,” he heard her say, “I mean to ask him. Hecan tell us, I guess. I haven’t a doubt but he heard thewhole story. You know he has a way of drawing peopleout. He’s so much tact and sympathy. I used to tell Agneshe was all tact and sympathy.”

Feeling quite sure that it was himself who was “all tactand sympathy,” Baird endeavoured to move by unobserved,but she caught sight of him and checked his progress.159

“Don’t talk about me,” he said, lightly; “I am not halfso culpable as I look.”

He often found small change of this order could be madeuseful with Mrs. Stornaway, and he bestowed this upon herwith an easy air which she felt to be very delightful.

“He’s so ready,” she observed, enraptured; “I often usedto say to Agnes——”

“We were talking about those people on Bank Street,”she said, “the Latimers. Mrs. Stornaway says you crossedthe Atlantic with the son, who has just come back. Dotell us something about him.”

“I am afraid I cannot make him as interesting to youas he was to me,” answered Baird, with his light air again.

“He does not look very interesting,” said Mrs. Stornaway.“I never saw anyone so sallow; I can’t understand Annieliking him.”

“He is interesting,” responded Baird. “Annie took oneof her fancies to him, and I took something more than afancy. We shall be good friends, I think.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s very kind of you to take such an interest,”proclaimed Mrs. Stornaway. “You are alwaysfinding something good in people.”

“I wish people were always finding something good inme,” said John Baird. “It was not difficult to find goodin this man. He is of the stuff they made saints and martyrsof in the olden times.”

“I was just saying,” put in Mrs. Stornaway, “that you160had such a sympathetic way of drawing people out that Iwas sure he had told you the whole story.”

“There was not much story,” Baird answered, “and itwas too sad to talk over. The poor child went abroadand died in some little place in Italy—of consumption,I think.”

“I suppose she was sick when they went,” commentedMrs. Downing. “I heard so. It was a queer thing forthem to go to Europe, as inexperienced as they were andeverything. But the father and mother were more inexperiencedstill, I guess. They were perfectly foolish aboutthe girl—and so was the brother. She went to some studioin Boston to study art, and they had an idea her bits ofpictures were wonderful.”

“I never saw her myself,” said Mrs. Stornaway. “Noone seems to have seen anything of her but Miss AmoryStarkweather.”

“Miss Starkweather!” exclaimed Baird. “Oh, yes—inher letters she mentioned having met her.”

“Well, it was a queer thing,” said Mrs. Downing, “butit was like Miss Amory. They say the girl fainted in thestreet as Miss Amory was driving by, and she stopped hercarriage and took her in and carried her home. She tookquite a fancy to her and saw her every day or so until shewent away.”

It was not unnatural that at this juncture John Baird’seyes should wander across the room to where Miss AmoryStarkweather sat, but it was a coincidence that as his eyefell upon her she should meet it with a gesture which calledhim to her side.

“It seems that Miss Amory wishes to speak to me,” hesaid to his companions.161

“He’ll make himself just as interesting to her as he hasmade himself to us,” said Mrs. Stornaway, with heavysprightliness, as he left them. “He never spares himselftrouble.”

“Can you sit down by me?” she said. “I want to talkto you about Lucien Latimer.”

“What is there in the atmosphere which suggests Latimer?”he inquired. “We have been talking about himat the other side of the room. Do you know him?”

“The little sister.” She leaned forward a little. “Whatwere the details of her death?” she asked. “I want toknow—I want to know.”

“I did not ask him,” he answered; “I thought he preferredto be silent. He is a silent man.”

She sat upright again, and for a moment seemed to forgetherself. She said something two or three times softlyto herself. Baird thought it was “Poor child! Poorchild!”

“The younger, the better,” she said. “Look at me!”Her burning eyes were troubling and suggestive. Bairdfound himself trying to gather himself together. He assumedthe natural air of kindly remonstrance.

“Oh, come,” he said. “Don’t take that tone. It isunfair to all of us.”

“Very well then,” she responded. “Look at yourself.If you had died as young as she did——”

He looked at her, conscious of a little coldness creepingover his body. She was usually lighter when they werenot entirely alone. Just now, in the midst of this commonplace,exceedingly middle-class evening party, with theLarkins, the Downings, and the Burtons chattering, warm,diffuse, and elate, about him, she stirred him with a littlehorror—not horror of herself, but of something in hermood.

“No,” she answered. “Worse, poor thing. It is notthe bad fellows who produce the crudest results. But Idid not call you here to tell you that you were bad or good.I called you to speak about Lucien Latimer. When you goto him—you are going to him?”

“I will tell him anything you wish,” said Baird. “Isthere anything else?”

“Margery,” Baird said slowly, as if the sound touchedhim. “What a pretty, simple name!”

“There is nothing more to tell,” she replied. “She wasdying when I met her. I saw it—in her eyes. She couldnot have lived. She went away and died. She—I——”

“There!” she said presently, “I don’t like to talk aboutit. I am too emotional for my years. Go to Mrs. Stornaway.She is looking for you.”

He got up and turned and left her without speaking,and a few minutes later, when Mrs. Stornaway wanted himto give an account of his interview with the Pope, she wassurprised to see him approaching her from the door as ifhe had been out of the room.

His story of the interview with the Pope was very interesting,and he was more “brilliant” than ever duringthe remainder of the evening, but when the last guest haddeparted, followed by Mrs. Stornaway to the threshold,that lady, on her return to the parlour, found him standingby the mantel looking at the fire with so profoundlywearied an air, that she uttered an exclamation.

“Why,” she said, “you look tired, I must say. Buteverything went off splendidly and I never saw you sobrilliant.”

“I’ve just been saying,” with renewed spirit of admiration,“that your crossing with that Latimer has quitebrought him into notice. It will be a good thing for him.I heard several people speak of him to-night and say howkind it was of you to take him up.”

“I should not like to have that tone taken,” he said.“Why should I patronise him? We shall be friends—ifhe will allow it.” He spoke with so much heat and impatiencethat Mrs. Stornaway listened with a discomfited stare.

“But nobody knows anything about them,” she said.“They’re quite ordinary people. They live in BankStreet.”164

“That may settle the matter for Willowfield,” saidBaird, “but it does not settle it for me. We are to befriends, and Willowfield must understand that.”

And such was the decision of his tone that Mrs. Stornawaydid not recover herself and was still staring afterhim in a bewildered fashion when he went upstairs.

“But it’s just like him,” she remarked, rather weaklyto the room’s emptiness. “That’s always the way withpeople of genius and—and—mind. They’re always humble.”

She had renewed opportunity for remarking upon thegenerous humility the next morning when he left the housewith the intention of paying his visit to Bank Street.

“He’s actually going,” she said. “Well, I must sayagain it’s just like him. There are very few men in hisposition who would think it worth while, but he treatseverybody with just as much consideration as if—as if hewas nobody.”

The house on Bank Street was just what he had expectedto find it—small, unornamental, painted white, and modestlyputting forth a few vines as if with a desire to clotheitself, which had not been encouraged by Nature. Thevines had not flourished and they, as well as the few flowersin the yard, were dropping their scant foliage, which turnedbrown and rustled in the autumn wind.

Before ringing the bell, Baird stood for a few momentsupon the threshold. As he looked up and down the street,he was pale and felt chilly, so chilly that he buttoned hislight overcoat over his breast and his hands even shookslightly as he did it. Then he turned and rang the bell.

It was answered by a little woman with a girlish figureand gray hair. For a moment John Baird paused beforespeaking to her, as he had paused before ringing the bell,and in the pause, during which he found himself lookinginto her soft, childishly blue eyes, he felt even chillier thanat first.166

“Yes,” she answered, “and you are Mr. Baird and havecome to see Lucien, I’m sure.”

“I am very glad to see you,” she said, “and Lucien willbe glad, too. Come in, please.”

She led the way into the little parlour, talking in a voiceas soft and kindly as her eyes. Lucien had been out, buthad just come in, she fancied, and was probably upstairs.She would go and tell him.

So, having taken him into the room, she went, leavinghim alone. When she was gone, Baird stood for a momentlistening to her footsteps upon the stairs. Then he crossedthe room and stood before the hearth looking up at apicture which hung over the mantel.

He was still standing before it when she returned withher son. He turned slowly to confront them, holding outhis hand to Latimer with something less of alert and sympatheticreadiness than was usual with him. There was inhis manner an element which corresponded with the lackof colour and warmth in his face.

“Of Margery,” put in the little mother. “Everyonelooks at Margery when they come in. It seems as if thechild somehow filled the room.” And though her softvoice had a sigh in it, she did not speak in entire sadness.

John Baird looked at the picture again. It was theportrait of a slight small girl with wistful eyes and an innocentface.167

“I felt sure that it was she,” he said in a lowered voice,“and you are quite right in saying that she seems to fillthe room.”

The mother put her hand upon her son’s arm. He hadturned his face towards the window. It seemed to Bairdthat her light touch was at once an appeal and a consolation.

“She filled the whole house when she was here,” shesaid; “and yet she was only a quiet little thing. She hada bright way with her quietness and was so happy and busy.It is my comfort now to remember that she was alwayshappy—happy to the last, Lucien tells me.”

She looked up at her son’s averted face as if expectinghim to speak, and he responded at once, though in his usualmechanical way.

The little woman watched him with tender, wistful eyes;two large tears welled up and slipped down her cheeks, butshe smiled softly as they fell.

“She had so wanted to go to Italy,” she said; “and wasso happy to be there. And at the last it was such a lovelyday, and she enjoyed it so and was propped up on a sofanear the window, and looked out at the blue sky and themountains, and made a little sketch. Tell him, Lucien,”and she touched his arm again.

“I shall be glad to hear,” said Baird, “but you mustnot tire yourself by standing,” and he took her hand gentlyand led her to a chair and sat down beside her, still holdingher hand.

But Latimer remained standing, resting his elbow uponthe mantel and looking down at the floor as he spoke.

“She was not well in England,” the little mother put168in, “but in Italy he thought she was better even to thevery last.”

“She was weak,” Latimer went on, without raising hiseyes, “but she was always bright and—and happy. Sheused to lie on the sofa by the window and look out andtry to make sketches. She could see the Apennines, and itwas the chestnut harvest and the peasants used to passalong the road on their way to the forests, and she liked towatch them. She used to try to sketch them too, but shewas too weak; and when I wrote home for her, she mademe describe them——”

“In her bright way!” said his mother. “I read the lettersover and over again and they seemed like pictures—likeher little pictures. It scarcely seems as if Luciencould have written them at all.”

“The last day,” said Latimer, “I had written home tosay that she was better. She was so well in the morningthat she talked of trying to take a drive, but in the afternoonshe was a little tired——”

“Only a little—and quite happy,” said Latimer. “Therewas a beautiful sunset and I drew her sofa to the windowsand she lay and looked at it—and talked; and just as thesun went down——”

“All in a lovely golden glory, as if the gates of heavenwere open,” the gentle voice added.

Latimer paused for an instant. His sallow face had becomepaler. He drew out his handkerchief and touchedhis forehead with it and his lips.

“All in a glow of gold,” he went on a little more hoarsely,“just as it went down, she turned on her pillow and began169to speak to me. She said ‘How beautiful it all is, and howglad—,’ and her voice died away. I thought she waslooking at the sky again. She had lifted her eyes to it andwas smiling: the smile was on her face when I—bent overher—a few moments after—and found that all was over.”

“It was not like death at all,” said his mother with asoft breathlessness. “She never even knew.” And thoughtears streamed down her cheeks, she smiled.

Baird rose suddenly and went to Latimer’s side. He worethe pale and bewildered face of a man walking in a dream.He laid his hand on his shoulder.

“She escaped both death and life,” said John Baird,“both death and life.”

“It was all so bright to her,” she said. “I can scarcelythink of it as a grief that we have lost her—for a littlewhile. Her little room upstairs never seems empty. Icould fancy that she might come in at any moment smilingas she used to. If she had ever suffered or been sad in it,I might feel as if the pain and sadness were left there; butwhen I open the door it seems as if her pretty smile met me,or the sound of her voice singing as she used to when shepainted.”

She rose and went to her son’s side again, laying herhand on his arm with a world of tenderness in her touch.

“Try to think of that, Lucien, dear,” she said; “try tothink that her face was never any sadder or older than wesee it in her pretty picture there. She might have lived tobe tired of living, and she was saved from it.”170

“Try to help him,” she said, turning to Baird, “perhapsyou can. He has not learned to bear it yet. They werevery near to each other, and perhaps he is too young tothink of it as we do. Grief is always heavier to youngpeople, I think. Try to help him.”

When she was gone, John Baird found himself trying,with a helpless feeling of desperation, to spur himself upto saying something; but neither words nor thoughts wouldcome. For the moment his mind seemed a perfect blank,and the silence of the room was terrible.

“I should be more resigned,” he said, “I should beresigned. But it has been a heavy blow.”

“She had a bright nature,” the lagging voice went on,“a bright nature—and gifts—which I had not. God gaveme no gifts, and it is natural to me to see that life is darkand that I can only do poorly the work which falls to me.I was a gloomy, unhappy boy when she was born. I hadlearned to know the lack in myself early, and I saw in herwhat I longed for. I know the feeling is a sin against Godand that His judgment will fall upon me—but I have nopower against it.”

“It is a very natural feeling,” said Baird, hoarsely. “Wecannot resign ourselves at once under a great sorrow.”

“Don’t say that!” Baird interrupted, with a shudder;“we need a God of Mercy, not a God who condemns.”

“Need!” the dark face almost livid in its pallor, “We171need! It is not He who was made for our needs, but we forHis. For His servants there is only submission to theanguish chosen for us.”

“That is a harsh creed,” said Baird, “and a dark one.Try a brighter one, man!”

“There is no brighter one for me,” was the answer.“She had a brighter one, poor child—and mine was a heavytrouble to her. Why should we deceive ourselves? Whatare we in His sight—in the sight of Immutable, EternalGod? We can only do His will and await the end. Wehave reason which we may not use; we can only believe andsuffer. There is agony on every side of us which, if it wereHis will, He might relieve, but does not. It is His will,and what is the impotent rebellion of Nature against that?What help have we against Him?”

His harsh voice had risen until it was almost a cry,the lank locks which fell over his sallow forehead weredamp with sweat. He put them back with a desperategesture.

“Such words of themselves are sin,” he said, “and it ismy curse and punishment that I should bear in my breastevery hour the crime of such rebellion. What is there leftfor me? Is there any labour or any pang borne for othersthat will wipe out the stain from my soul?”

John Baird looked at him as he had looked before. Hisusual ready flow of speech, his rapidity of thought, hisknowledge of men and their necessities seemed all to havedeserted him.

He had not known what he was going to say when hebegan, and he did not know how he intended to end. Heheard with a passionate sense of relief that the door behind172them opened, and turned to find that Mrs. Latimer stoodupon the threshold as if in hesitancy.

“Lucien,” she said, “it is that poor girl from Janway’sMills. The one Margery was so sorry for—Susan Chapman.She wants to see you. I think the poor child wantsto ask about Margery.”

Mrs. Latimer went to the front door, and in a few secondsreturned. The girl was with her and entered the roomslowly. She was very pale and her eyes were dilated andshe breathed fast as if frightened. She glanced at JohnBaird and stopped.

“I will go away, if you wish it,” said Baird, the sympathetictone returning to his voice.

“No,” said Latimer, “you can do her more good than Ican. This gentleman,” he added to the girl, “is my friend,and a Minister of God as well as myself. He is the Rev.John Baird.”

There was in his eyes, as he addressed her, a look whichwas like an expression of dread—as if he saw in her youngyet faded face and figure something which repelled himalmost beyond self-control.

Perhaps the girl saw, while she did not comprehend it.She regarded him helplessly.

“I—I don’t know—hardly—why I came,” she faltered,twisting the corner of her shawl.

She had been rather pretty, but the colour and freshnesswere gone from her face and there were premature lines ofpain and misery marking it here and there.

“Sit down,” he said. “Have you walked all the wayfrom Janway’s Mills?”

She started a little and gave him a look, half wonder, halfrelief, and then fell to twisting the fringe of her poor shawlagain.

“Yes, I walked,” she answered; “but I can’t set down.I h’ain’t but a minute to stay.”

Her clothes, which had been shabby at their best, wereat their worst now, and, altogether, she was a figure neitherattractive nor picturesque.

But Baird saw pathos in her. It was said that one ofhis most charming qualities was his readiness to discoverthe pathetic under any guise.

She checked herself and wiped her tears away with theshawl corner almost immediately.

“I wanted to know something abouther,” she said.“Nobody seemed to know nothin’, only that she was dead.When they said you’d come home, it seemed like I couldn’trest until I’d heard something.”

It struck Baird that the girl’s manner was a curious one.It was a manner which seemed to conceal beneath its shamefacedawkwardness some secret fear or anxiety. She gaveLatimer a hurried, stealthy look, and then her eyes fell.It was as if she would have read in his gloomy face whatshe did not dare to ask.

“I’d be afraid to die myself,” she stammered. “I can’tbear to think of it. I’m afraid. Was she?”174

“I’m glad of that,” she said; “she can’t have mindedso much if she wasn’t afraid. I’d like to think she didn’tmind it so much—or suffer.”

“I never saw nothin’ of her after the last day she cameto Janway’s Mills,” the girl began.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice shaking. “I guess shenever told. After that first night she stood by me. Noone else did. Seemed like other folks thought I’d poison’em. She’d come an’ see me an’—help me. She was sickthe last day she came, and when she was going home shefainted in the street, I heard folks say, I never saw her afterthat.”

“So as she didn’t mind much, or suffer,” she said, “t’ain’tso bad to think of. She wasn’t one to be able to stand upagainst things. She’d have died if she’d been me. I’d beglad enough to die myself, if I wasn’t afraid. She’d cryover me when I wasn’t crying over myself. I’ve been beatabout till I don’t mind, like I used. They’re a hard lotdown at the Mills.”

His voice was harsh and his manner repellant only becauseNature had served him the cruel turn of makingthem so. He was bitterly conscious as he spoke of havingchosen the wrong words and uttered them with an appearanceof relentless rigour which he would have madeany effort to soften.175

“Have you any work?” he asked. “Do you need help?Don’t mind telling us. My friend is to take charge of yourchurch at the Mills.”

The girl interrupted him. She had turned miserablypale under Latimer’s question.

“’Tain’t no church of mine!” she said, passionately; “Ih’ain’t nothin’ to do with it. I never belonged to no churchanyhow, an’ I’m leadin’ the kind o’ life any girl’d leadthat hadn’t nothin’ nor nobody. I don’t mean,” with astrangled sob, “to even myself withher; but what’ud sheha’ done if she’d ha’ slipped like I did—an’ then hadnothin’ nor—nor nobody?”

“’Twon’t hurt her,” said the girl, struggling with a sobagain; “she’s past bein’ hurt even by such as me—an’ I’mglad of it. She’s well out of it all!”

“Let me try,” he said; “take a note to Miss Starkweatherfrom me and wait at the house for a few minutes. Come,that isn’t much, is it? You’ll do that much, I’m sure.”

She looked down at the floor a few seconds and then upat him. It had always been considered one of his recommendationsthat he was so unprofessional in his appearance.

He drew a note-book from his breast-pocket and, havingwritten a few words on a leaf of it, tore it out andhanded it to her.176

“Before I go,” he said, “I want to say a few words toyou—to ask you to make me a promise.”

Baird laid his hand on the man’s gaunt shoulder with anervous grasp as he spoke, and his voice was unsteady.

“I have never had a friend,” answered Latimer, monotonously;“I should scarcely know what to do with one.”

“Then it is time you had one,” Baird replied. “AndI may have something to offer you. There may be somethingin—in my feeling which may be worth your having.”

“You are offering me a good deal,” he said, “I scarcelyknow why—myself.”

“But you don’t take my hand, Latimer,” Baird said;and the words were spoken with a faint loss of colour.

“What have I to offer in return?” he said. “I havenothing. You had better think again. I should only bea kind of shadow on your life.”

“I want nothing in return—nothing,” Baird said. “Idon’t even ask feeling from you. Be a shadow on my life,if you will. Why should I have no shadows? Why shouldall go smoothly with me, while others——” He paused,checking his vehemence as if he had suddenly recognisedit. “Let us be friends,” he said.

The respectable portion of the population of Janway’sMills believed in church-going and on Sunday-school attendance—infact, the most entirely respectable believedthat such persons as neglected these duties were preparingthemselves for damnation. They were a quiet, simple, andunintellectual people. Such of them as occasionally readbooks knew nothing of any literature which was not religious.The stories they had followed through certaininexpensive periodicals were of the order which describesthe gradual elevation of the worldly-minded or depravedto the plane of church-going and Sunday-school. Theirfew novels made it theirmotif to prove that it is easier fora camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a richman to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. Any hero orheroine of wealth who found peace of mind and marriedhappily, only attained these objects through the assistanceof some noble though humble unsecular person whose exampleand instruction led them to adopt unsecular views.The point of view of Janway’s Mills was narrow and farfrom charitable when it was respectable; its point of view,when it was not respectable, was desperate. Even sinners,at Janway’s Mills, were primitive and limited in outlook.They did not excuse themselves with specious argumentfor their crimes of neglecting church-going, using bad language,hanging about bar-rooms, and loose living. They178were not brilliant wrongdoers and made no attempt at defendingthemselves or pretending that they did not knowthey were going to perdition. The New England mind isnot broad or versatile, and, having begun life in a Puritanatmosphere, it is not quick to escape its influence. Societyat the Mills recognised no social distinction whichwas not founded upon the respectability of church-goingand the observance of social laws made by church-goers;it recognised none because it absolutelyknew of none. Thegreat world was not far from Janway’s Mills, but they didnot touch each other. Willowfield was near, Boston andNew York themselves were not far distant, but the curiousfact being that millions of human minds may work andgrow and struggle as if they were the minds of dwellersupon another planet, though less than a hundred milesmay separate them, the actual lives, principles, and significancesof the larger places did not seem to touch the smallerone. The smaller one was a village of a few streets of smallhouses which had grown up about the Mills themselves.The Mills gave employment to a village full of hands, so thevillage gradually evolved itself. It was populated by theuneducated labouring class; some were respectable, somewere dissolute and lived low and gross lives, but all wereuneducated in any sense which implies more than thepower to read, write, and make a few necessary calculations.Most of them took some newspaper. They read ofthe multi-millionaires who lived in New York and Chicagoand California, they read of the politicians in Washington,they found described to them the great entertainmentsgiven by millionaires’ wives and daughters, the marvellousdresses they wore, the multifarious ways in which theyamused themselves, but what they read seemed so totally179unlike anything they had ever seen, so far apart from theirown lives, that though they were not aware of the fact, thetruth was that they believed in them with about the samedegree of realisation with which they believed in whatthey heard in the pulpit of the glories of the New Jerusalem.No human being exists without an ambition, andthe ambition of Janway’s Millers of the high-class was topossess a neat frame-house with clean Nottingham lacecurtains at the windows, fresh oilcloth on the floor of thefront hall, furniture covered with green or red reps in theparlour, a tapestry Brussels carpet, and a few lithographsupon the walls. It was also the desire of the owners of suchpossessions that everyone should know that they attendedone of the churches, that their house-cleaning was doneregularly, that no member of the family frequented bar-rooms,and that they were respectable people. It was anambition which was according to their lights, and could bedespised by no honest human being, however dull it mightappear to him. It resulted oftener than not in the makingof excellent narrow lives which brought harm to no one.The lives which went wrong on the street-corners and inthe bar-rooms often did harm. They produced discomfort,unhappiness, and disorder; but as it is also quitecertain that no human being produces these things withoutworking out his own punishment for himself whilehe lives on earth, the ends of justice were doubtless attained.

If a female creature at the Mills broke the great sociallaw, there was no leaning towards the weakness of pity forher, Janway’s was not sufficiently developed, mentally, todeal with gradations or analysis of causes and impellingpowers. The girl who brought forth a child without the180pale of orthodox marriage was an outcast and a disgracedcreature, and nobody flinched from pronouncing her both.

“It’s disgustin’, that’s what I call it,” it was the customfor respectable wives and mothers to say. “It’s disgustin’!A nice thing she’s done for herself. I h’ain’t no patiencewith girls like her, with no fear o’ God or religion in theman’ no modesty and decency. She deserves whatever comesto her!”

Usually every tragedy befell her which could befall awoman. If her child lived, it lived the life of wretchednessand was an outcast also. The outcome of its existence wasdetermined by the order of woman its mother chanced tobe. If the maternal instinct was warm and strong withinher and she loved it, there were a few chances that it mightfight through its early years of struggle and expand intoa human being who counted asone at least among theworld’s millions. Usually the mother died in the gutter orthe hospital, but there had been women who survived, andwhen they did so it was often because they made a battle fortheir children. Sometimes it was because they were madeof the material which is not easily beaten, and then theylearned as the years went by that the human soul and willmay be even stronger than that which may seem at theoutset overwhelming fate.

When the girl Susan Chapman fell into misfortune anddisgrace, her path was not made easy for her. There werea few months when the young mill hand who broughtdisaster upon her, made love to her, and hung about hersmall home, sometimes leaning upon the rickety gate totalk and laugh with her, sometimes loitering with her inthe streets or taking her to cheap picnics or on ratherrowdy excursions. She wore the excited and highly pleased181air seen in young women of her class when the masculinecreature is paying court. She spent her wages in personaldecoration, she bought cheap feathers and artificial flowersand remnants on “bargain days,” and decked herself withthem. Her cheap, good looks reached their highest pointbecause she felt the glow of a promotive triumph and herspirits were exhilarated. She was nearer happiness thanshe had ever been before. The other girls, who were millhands like herself, were full of the usual rather enviousjokes about her possible marriage. To be married was toachieve a desirable distinction and to work at home insteadof at the Mills. The young man was not an absolutevillain, he was merely an ignorant, foolish young animal.At first he had had inchoate beliefs in a domesticfuture with the girl. But the time came when equally inchoateideas of his own manhood led him to grow cool.The New England atmosphere which had not influencedhim in all points, influenced him in the matter of feelingthat the woman a man married must have kept herself respectable.The fact that he himself had caused her fallfrom the plane of decency was of comparatively small moment.

A man who married a woman who had not managed tokeep straight, put himself into a sort of ridiculous position.He lost masculine distinction. This one ceasedto lean on the gate and talk at night, and went to fewerpicnics. He was in less high spirits, and so was the girl.She often looked pale and as if she had been crying. ThenJack Williams gave up his place at the Mill and left thevillage. He did not tell his sweetheart. The morning afterhe left, Susan came to her work and found the girls abouther wearing a mysterious and interested air.182

“’Tain’t no secret,” was the answer. “Most everybody’sheard it, and I guess it ain’t no secret to you. I guess hetold you when he made up his mind to go.”

“Jack Williams. He’s gone out to Chicago to worksomewhere there. He kept it pretty dark from us, butwhen he went off on the late train last night, Joe Evanssaw him, and he said he’d had the offer of a first-rate joband was going to it. How you stare, Sue! Your eyes lookas if they’d pop out o’ yer head.”

She was staring and her skin had turned blue-white.She broke into a short hysteric laugh and fell down. Thenshe was very sick and fainted and had to be taken hometrembling so that she could scarcely crawl as she walked,with great tears dropping down her cold face. Janway’sMills knew well enough after this that Jack Williams haddeserted her, and had no hesitation in suggesting a reasonfor his defection.

The months which followed were filled with the tormentsof a squalid Inferno. Girls who had regarded her withenvy, began to refuse to speak to her or to be seen in hercompany. Jack Williams’s companions were either impudentor disdainful, the married women stared at her andcommented on her as she passed; there were no more picnicsor excursions for her; her feathers became draggledand hung broken in her hat. She had no relatives in thevillage, having come from a country place. She was thankfulthat she had not a family of aunts on the spot, becauseshe knew they would have despised her and talked her overmore than the rest. She lived in a bare little room which183she rented from a poor couple, and she used to sit alonein it, huddled up in a heap by the window, crying forhours in the evening as she watched the other girls go bylaughing and joking with their sweethearts.

One night when there was a sociable in the little frameMethodist church opposite, and she saw it lighted up andthe people going in dressed in their best clothes and excitedat meeting each other, the girls giggling at the sight oftheir favourite young men—just as she had giggled sixmonths before—her slow tears began to drip faster andthe sobs came one upon another until she was choked bythem and she began to make a noise. She sobbed and criedmore convulsively, until she began to scream and went intosomething like hysterics. She dropped down on her faceand rolled over and over, clutching at her breast and hersides and throwing out her arms. The people of the househad gone to the sociable and she was alone, so no one heardor came near her. She shrieked and sobbed and rolled overand over, clutching at her flesh, trying to gasp out wordsthat choked her.

“O, Lord!” she gasped, wild with the insensate agonyof a poor, hysteria torn, untaught, uncontrolled thing, “Idon’t know what I’ve done! I don’t! ’Tain’t fair! I didn’tgo to! I can’t bear it! He h’ain’t got nothin’ to bear, heain’t! O, Lord God, look down on me!”

She was the poor, helpless outcome of the commonestphase of life, but her garret saw a ghastly tragedy as shechoked through her hysterics. Who is to blame for andwho to prevent such tragedies, let deep thinkers strive totell.

The day after this was the one on which little MargeryLatimer came into her life. It was in the early spring, just184before the child had gone to Boston to begin her art lessons.She had come to Janway’s Mills to see a poor woman whohad worked for her mother. The woman lived in thehouse in which Susan had her bare room. She began totalk about the girl half fretfully, half contemptuously.

“She’s the one Jack Williams got into trouble and thenleft to get out of it by herself as well as she could,” shesaid. “She might ha’ known it. Gals is fools. She can’twork at the Mills any more, an’ last night when we wasall at the Sosherble, she seems to’ve had a spasm o’ somekind; she can’t get out o’ bed this mornin’ and lies therelookin’ like death an’ moanin’. I can’t ’tend to her, I’vegot work o’ my own to do. Lansy! how she was moanin’when I passed her door! Seemed like she’d kill herself!”

“Lor, no!” the woman cried; “she ain’t the kind o’ galyou’d oughter be doing things for, she was allus right downcommon, an’ she’s sunk down ’bout as low as a gal can.”

But Margery went up to the room where the moaningwas going on. She stood outside the door on the landingfor a few moments, her heart trembling in her side beforeshe went in. Her life had been a simple, happy, bright oneup to this time. She had not seen the monster life closeat hand. She had large, childish eyes which were thecolour of harebells and exquisitely sympathetic and sweet.There were tears in them when she gently opened the doorand stood timidly on the threshold.

The moaning and low choking sobs went on, and in avery few moments they so wrought upon her, that shepushed the door farther open and entered the room. Whatshe saw was a barren, common little place, and on the beda girl lying utterly prostrated by an hysteric tempest whichhad lasted hours. Her face was white and swollen andcovered with red marks, as if she had clutched and torn itwith her fingers, her dress was torn open at the bosom, andher hair tumbled, torn, and loose about the pillow; therewas a discoloured place upon her forehead which was settlinginto a bruise. Her eyes were puffed with crying untilthey were almost closed. Her breast rose with short, exhausted,but still convulsive sobs. Margery felt as if shewas drawn into a vortex of agony. She could not resist it.She went to the bed, stood still a second, trembling, andthen sank upon her knees and put her face down upon thewretched hand nearest and kissed it with piteous impulsivesympathy.

“Oh! don’t cry like that,” she said, crying herself. “Oh,don’t! Oh, don’t! I’m so sorry for you—I’mso sorry foryou.”

She did not know the girl at all, she had never even heardof her before, but she kissed her hand and cried over it andfondled it against her breast. She was one of those humanthings created by Nature to suffer with others, and forthem, and through them.

She did not know how long it was before the girl becamesufficiently, articulate to speak to her. She herself wasscarcely articulate for some time. She could only try tofind words to meet a need so far beyond her ken. She hadnever come in contact with a woman in this strait before.

But at last Susan was lying in the bed instead of on its186tossed and tumbled outside. Margery had done the nearest,simple things for her. She had helped her to batheher face with cold water, to undress and put on her nightgown;she had prepared her narrow bed for her decently,and smoothed and wound up her hair. Then she had gonedownstairs, got her a cup of tea, and sat by her and madeher drink it. Then she set the room in order and openedthe window to air it.

“There is a bruise on your forehead,” she had said, asshe was arranging the torn hair. “You must have struckit against something when you were ill last night.”

“I struck it against the wall,” Susan answered, in amonotonous voice. “I did it on purpose. I banged myhead against the wall until I fell down and was sick.”

“Don’t think about it,” she said. “You ought not tohave been alone. Some—some friend ought to have beenwith you.”

“I haven’t got any friends,” Susan answered. “I don’tknow why you came up to me. I don’t guess you knowwhat’s the matter with me.”

“It’s the worst kind o’ trouble a woman can get into,”said Susan, the muscles of her face beginning to be drawnagain. “I don’t see why—why Jack Williams can skip offto Chicago to a new, big job that’s a stroke o’ luck—an’ meleft lie here to bear everything—an’ be picked at, an’ madefun of, an’ druv mad with the way I’m kicked in the gutter.I don’t see noright in it. Thereain’t no right in it; I don’tbelieve there’s no God anyhow; I won’t never believe itagain. No one can’t make me. If I’ve done what givesfolks a right to cast me off, so’s Jack Williams.”187

“You haven’t pretended to love a person and then runaway and left them to—to suffer,” said little Margery, onthe verge of sobs again.

“No, I haven’t!” said the girl, her tears beginning tostream anew. “I’m not your kind. I’m not educated. I’monly a common mill hand, but I did love Jack Williamsall I knew how. He had such a nice way with him—kindof affectionate, an’—an’ he was real good-lookin’ too whenhe was fixed up. If I’d been married to him, no one wouldhave said nothin’, an’—an’ ’tain’t nothin’ but a ministerreadin’ somethin’ anyhow—marryin’ ain’t.”

This was before Margery went to Boston to try to developher gift for making pretty sketches. Her father and motherand her brother strained every nerve to earn and save themoney to cover her expenses. She went away full of innocent,joyous hope in the month of May. She boarded ina plain, quiet house, and had two rooms. One was her workroomand studio. She worked under a good-natured artist,who thought her a rather gifted little creature and used totake her to look at any pictures that were on exhibition.Taking into consideration her youth and limited advantages,she made such progress as led him to say that she had afuture before her.

She had never deserted Sue Chapman after that first morningin which she had gone to her rescue. Janway’s Millswas bewildered when it found that the Reverend LucienLatimer’s sister went to see Jack Williams’ deserted sweetheart,and did not disdain to befriend her in her disgrace.The church-going element, with the Nottingham lace curtainsin its parlour windows, would have been shocked, butthat it was admitted that “the Latimers has always beena well-thought-of family, an’ all of ’em is members in goodstandin’. They’re greatly respected in Willowfield; eventhe old fam’lies speak to ’em when they meet ’em in thestreet or at Church.

“Not that I’d be willin’ for my Elma Ann to ’sociatewith a girl that’s gone wrong. Maybe it’s sorter differentwith a minister’s sister. Ministers’ families has to ’sociate189out o’ charity an’ religion; go to pray with ’em, an’ that,an’ read the Scripture to make ’em sense their sinfulnessan’ the danger they’re in.”

But Margery did not pray with Susan Chapman, or readthe Bible to her. The girl held obstinately to her statementof unbelief in a God, and Margery did not feel that her moodwas one to which reading the Gospel would appeal. If shecould have explained to her the justice of the difference betweenJack Williams’ lot and her own, she felt they mighthave advanced perhaps, but she could not. She used to goto see her and try to alleviate her physical discomfort andmiserable poverty. She saved her from hunger and coldwhen she could no longer work at all, and she taught herto feel that she was not utterly without a friend.

“What I’d have done without you, God knows—or whatought to be God,” Sue said. “He didn’t care, but you did.If thereis one, He’s got a lot to learn from some of thepeople He’s made Himself. ‘After His own image createdHe them’—that’s what the Bible says; but I don’t believeit. If He was as good and kind-hearted as the best of us,He wouldn’t sit upon His throne with angels singing roundan’ playin’ on harps, an’ Him too much interested to seehow everything sufferin’ down below. What did He makeus for, if He couldn’t look after us? I wouldn’t make athing I wouldn’t do my best by—an’ I ain’t nothin’ buta factory girl. This—this poor thing that’s goin’ to be bornan’ hain’t no right to, I’ll do my level best by it—I will.It sha‘n’t suffer, if I can help it”—her lips jerking.

Sometimes Margery would talk to her a little about JackWilliams—or, rather, she would listen while Susan talked.Then Susan would cry, large, slow-rolling tears slippingdown her cheeks.190

“I don’t know how—how it happened like this,” shewould say. “It seems like a kind o’ awful dream. I don’tknow nothin’. He was common—just like I am—an’ hedidn’t know much; but it didn’t seem like he was a badfeller—an’ I do b’lieve he liked me.Seemed like he did,anyways. They say he’s got a splendid job in Chicago. Hewon’t never know nothin’ about what happens.”

Margery did not leave her unprovided for when she wentto Boston. It cost very little to keep her for a few monthsin her small room. The people of the house promised to bedecently kind to her. Margery had only been away fromhome two weeks when the child was born. The hystericalparoxysms and violent outbreaks of grief its mother hadpassed through, her convulsive writhings and clutchings andbeating of her head against the walls had distorted and exhaustedthe little creature. The women who were with hersaid its body looked as if it were bruised in spots all over,and there was a purple mark on its temple. It breatheda few times and died.

“Good thing, too!” said the women. “There’s too manyin the world that’s got a right here. It’d hev’ had to goto ruin.”

“Good thing forit,” said Susan, weakly but sullenly,from her bed; “but if it’s God as makes ’em, how did Hecome to go to the trouble of making this one an’ sendin’it out, if it hadn’t no right to come? Hedoes make ’emall, doesn’t he? You wouldn’t darst to say He didn’t—you,Mrs. Hopp, that’s a church member!” And her white faceactually drew itself into a ghastly, dreary grin. “Lawsy!He’s kept pretty busy!”

When she was able to stand on her feet she went back tothe mill. She was a good worker, and hands were needed.191The girls and women fought shy of her, and she had nochance of enjoying any young pleasures or comforts, evenif she had not been too much broken on the rack of themisery of the last year to have energy to desire them. Noyoung man wanted to be seen talking to her, no youngwoman cared to walk with her in the streets. She alwayswent home to her room alone, and sat alone, and thoughtof what had happened to her, trying to explain to herselfhow it had happened and why it had turned out that shewas worse than any other girl. She had never felt like abad girl. No one had ever called her one before this lastyear.

Three months after the child was born and died, Margerycame back to Willowfield to spend a week at home. Shecame to see Susan, and they sat together in the tragic littlebare room and talked. Though the girl had been so delicatelypretty before she left home, Susan saw that she hadbecome much prettier. She was dressed in light, softlytinted summer stuffs, and there was something about herwhich was curiously flower-like. Her long-lashed, harebellblue eyes seemed to have widened and grown lovelier in theirinnocent look. A more subtle mind than Susan Chapman’smight have said that she seemed to be looking farther intoLife’s spaces, and that she was trembling upon the vergeof something unknown and beautiful.

She talked about Boston and the happiness of her lifethere, and of her work and her guileless girlish hopes andambitions.

“I am doing my very best,” she said, a spot of pink flickeringon her cheek; “I work as hard as I can, but you seeI am so ignorant. I could not have learned anything aboutart in Willowfield. But people are so good to me—people192who know a great deal. There is one gentleman who comessometimes to see Mr. Barnard at the studio. He is so wonderful,it seems to me. He has travelled, and knows allabout the great galleries and the pictures in them. Hetalks so beautifully that everyone listens when he comes in.Nobody can bear to go on with work for fear of missingsomething. You would think he would not notice a plainlittle Willowfield girl, but he has beenlovely to me, Susan.He has even looked at my work and criticised it for me,and talked to me. He nearly always talks to me a little whenhe comes in, and once I met him in the Gardens, and hestopped and talked there, and walked about looking at theflowers with me. They had been planting out the springthings, and it was like being in fairyland to walk aboutamong them and hear the things he said about pictures. Ittaught me so much.”

She referred to this friend two or three times, and oncementioned his name, but Susan forgot it. She was sucha beautiful, happy little thing, and seemed so exquisite anexpression of spring-like, radiant youth and its innocent joyin living that the desolate and stranded creature she hadbefriended could think of nothing but her own awkwardworship and the fascination of the flower-like charm. Sheused to sit and stare at her.

“Seems so queer to see anyone as happy an’ pretty asyou,” she broke out once. “Oh, Lawsy, I hope nothingwon’t ever come to spoil it. It hadn’t ought to be spoiled.”

A month or so later Margery paid a visit to her homeagain. She stayed a longer time, but Susan only saw heronce. She had come home from Boston with a cold andhad been put to bed for a day or two.

One morning Susan was in Willowfield and met her walking193in a quiet street. She was walking slowly and lookingdown as she went, as if some thought was abstracting her.When Susan stopped before her, she looked up with a start.It was a start which revealed that she had been brought backsuddenly from a distance, as it were a great distance.

She held out her hand in her pretty, affectionate way, butshe was actually a little out of breath.

“Yes,” she answered, “I was—I was thinking of thingsthat seem so far off. When I’m in Willowfield it seems asif—as if they can’t be true. Does anything ever seem likethat to you, Susan?”

“Yes,” said Susan. One of her hopeless looks leapedinto her eyes. She did not say what the things were, butshe stared at Margery in a helpless, vacant way for amoment.

“Are you well, Susan, and have you got work?” askedMargery. “I am coming to see you to-morrow.”

They spoke of common things for a few minutes, andthen went their separate ways.

Why it was that when she paid the promised visit thenext day and they sat together in their old way and talked,Susan felt a kind of misery creeping slowly upon her, shecould not in the least have explained. She was not sufficientlydeveloped mentally to have been capable of sayingto herself that there was a difference between this visit andthe last, between this Margery and the one who had sat withher before. Her dull thoughts were too slow to travel toa point so definite in so short a length of time as one afternoonafforded.194

“Yes,” was the answer. “It made me feel weak. Butit has gone now. I am quite well again.”

After that Susan saw her but once again. As time wenton she heard a vague rumour that the Latimers were anxiousabout Margery’s health. Just at that time the mill handsgossiped a good deal about Willowfield, because the ReverendJohn Baird was said to be going to Europe. That ledto talk on the subject of other Willowfield people, and theLatimers among them. In the rare, brief letters Margerywrote to herprotégée, she did not say she was ill. Once shesaid her brother Lucien had quite suddenly come to Bostonto see how she was, because her mother imagined she musthave taken cold.

She had been in Boston about a year then. One afternoonSusan was in her room, standing by her bed forlornly, and,in a vacant, reasonless mood, turning over the few coarselittle garments she had been able to prepare for her child—afew common little shirts and nightgowns and gray flannels—nomore. She heard someone at the door. The handleturned and the door opened as if the person who came in hadforgotten the ceremony of knocking. Susan laid down onthe bed the ugly little night-dress she had been looking at;it lay there stiff with its coarseness, its short arms stretchedout. She turned about and faced Margery Latimer, whohad crossed the threshold and stood before her.

The girl looked like a ghost. It was a ghost Susanthought of this time, and not a flower. The pure little facewas white and drawn, the features were sharpened, the harebell-coloured195eyes had almost a look of wildness; it was asif they had been looking at something frightening for along time, until they could not lose the habit of expressingfear.

“Susan,” she said, in a strange, uncertain voice, “youdidn’t expect to see me.”

“No, no,” she said, “I didn’t know you was here. Ithought you was in Boston. What’s the matter? Oh, Lawsy,Margery, what’s happened to make you look like this?”

“Nobody knows,” answered Margery. “They say it’sthe cold. They are frightened about me. I’m come to saygood-bye to you, Susan.”

“Lucien’s going to take me to Europe,” she said, her voiceall at once seeming to sound monotonous, as if she was recitinga lesson mechanically. “I always wanted to go there—tovisit the picture galleries and study. They think theclimate will be good for me. I’ve been coughing in themornings—and I can’t eat.”

“Mother’s frightened,” said Margery. “She and the doctordon’t know what to think. Lucien’s going to take meto Europe. It’s expensive, but—but he has managed toget the money. He sold a little farm he owned.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “No one knows what a goodbrother he is—nobody but myself. He is willing to giveup everything to—to save me—and to save poor motherfrom awful trouble. Sometimes I think he is something196like Christ—even like Christ! He is willing to suffer forother people—for their pain—and weakness—and sin.”

It was so evident that the change which had taken placein her was a woeful one. Her bright loveliness was gone—hersimple, lovable happiness. Her nerves seemed all unstrung.But it was the piteous, strained look in her childlikeeyes which stirred poor Susan’s breast to tumult.

“Margery,” she said, almost trembling, “if—if—if youwas to go in a consumption and die—you’re not like me—youneedn’t be afraid.”

The next moment she was sorry she had said the crudething. Margery burst into a passion of weeping. Susanflew to her and caught her in her arms, kneeling down byher.

“I oughtn’t to have said it,” she cried. “You’re too illto be made to think of such things. I was a fool not to see—Margery,Margery, don’t!”

“They say that—that God forgives people,” she wept.“I’ve prayed and prayed to be forgiven for—for my sins.I’ve never meant to be wicked. I don’t know—I don’tknow how——”

“Hush!” said Susan, soothing and patting her tremblingshoulder. “Hush, hush! If thereis a God, Margery, He’sa heap sight better than we give Him credit for. He don’tmake people a’ purpose, so they can’t help things somehow—an’don’t know—an’ then send ’em to burning hell forbein’ the way He made ’em.We wouldn’t do it, an’ Hewon’t. You hain’t no reason to be afraid of dyin’.”

Margery stayed with her about half an hour. There wasa curious element in their conversation. They spoke as if197their interview was a final one. Neither of them actuallyexpressed the thought in words, but a listener would havefelt vaguely that they never expected to meet each otheragain on earth. They made no references to the future; itwas as if no future could be counted upon. Afterwards,when she was alone, Susan realised that she had never oncesaid “when you come back from Europe.”

As she was leaving the room, Margery passed the bed onwhich the small, coarse garments lay. The little nightgown,with its short sleeves stiffly outstretched, seemed to arrest herattention specially. She caught at Susan’s dress as if shewas unaware that she made the movement or of the sharpshudder which followed it.

“I—don’t know—how peoplebear it!” exclaimed Margery.It was an exclamation, and her hand went quicklyup to her mouth almost as if to press it back.

“They don’tbear it,” said Susan, stonily. “They haveto go through it—that’s all. If you was standin’ on thegallows with the rope round your neck and the trap-doorunder your feet, you wouldn’t be bearin’ it, but the trap-doorwould drop all the same, an’ down you’d plunge—intothe blackness.”

It was on this morning, on her way through the streets,that Margery dropped in a dead faint upon the pavement,and Miss Amory Starkweather, passing in her carriage,picked her up and carried her home.

Susan Chapman never saw her again. Some months afterwardscame the rumour that she had died of consumptionin Italy.

When, in accordance with Baird’s instructions, SusanChapman took the note to Miss Starkweather, she walkedthrough the tree-shaded streets, feeling as if she had suddenlyfound herself in a foreign country. To the inhabitantsof Janway’s Mills, certain parts of Willowfield stoodfor wealth, luxury, and decorous splendour. The Mills,which lived within itself, was easily impressed. Its—occasionallyresentful—respect for Willowfield was enormous.It did not behold it as a simple provincial town, whose businessestablishments were primitive, and whose frame houses,even when surrounded by square gardens with flower-bedsadorning them, were merely comfortable middle-class abodesof domesticity. It was awed by the WillowfieldTimes, itrevered the button factory, and bitterly envied the carriagesdriven and the occasional festivities held by the families ofthe representatives of these monopolies. The carriages weresober and middle-aged, and so were the parties, but to Janway’sMills they illustrated wealth and gaiety. People droveabout in the vehicles and wore fine clothes and ate cakes andice-cream at the parties—neither of which things had everbeen possible or ever would become possible to Janway’s.

And Susan, who had been a Pariah and an outcast at theMills, was walking through the best streets, carrying a notefrom the popular minister to the rich Miss Starkweather,who had an entire square white frame house and garden,which were her own property.

The girl felt a little sullen and a little frightened. She199did not know what would happen to her; she did not knowhow she would be expected to carry herself in a house sorepresentative of wealth and accustomedness to the goodthings of life. Perhaps if she had not been desperate, andalso, if she had not known that Miss Starkweather had beenfond of Margery, she would have evaded going to her.

“I wonder what she’ll say to me,” she thought. “Theysay she’s queer.”

She still felt uncertain and resentful when she stood uponthe threshold and rang the bell. She presented a stolidcountenance to the maid servant who opened the door andreceived her message. When she was at last taken to MissAmory, she went with an unresponding bearing, and, beingled into a cheerful room where the old woman sat, stoodbefore her waiting, as if she had really nothing to do withthe situation.

Miss Amory looked rather like some alert old hawk, lesspredatory by instinct than those of his species usually are.

“Yes. I went there to ask something. I couldn’t bearnot to know—no more than I did.”

“Nothin’,” rather sullenly, “but that she was ill—an’went away an’ died.”

“In Italy, they say,” put in Miss Amory—“lying ona sofa before an open window—on a lovely day, when thesun was setting.”200

Susan Chapman started a little, and her face changed.The unresponsiveness melted away. There was somethinglike a glow of relief in her look. She became human andlost sight of Miss Amory’s supposed grandeur.

“Was it like that?” she exclaimed. “Was it? I’m thankfulto you for telling me. Somehow I couldn’t ask properlywhen I was face to face with her brother. You can’t talkto him. I never knew where—or how—it was. I wantedto find out if—if it was all right with her. I wanted toknow she hadn’t suffered.”

“I’dreason to be,” returned Susan. “She was only adelicate little young thing—but she came an’ stayed by mewhen I was in hell an’ no one else would give me a dropof water to cool my tongue.”

“I know something about that,” said Miss Amory; “Ihave heard it talked of. Where’s your child?”

A faint red showed itself on the girl’s haggard cheeks,and she stared at her with indifferent blankness.

“I worked in the mill till my health broke down for aspell, an’ I had to give up. I’m better now, but I’ve notgot a cent to live on, an’ my place was filled up right away.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard a word of him sincehe slid off to Chicago.”201

For a moment or so she sat silent, thinking. She held herchin in her hand and pinched it. Presently she looked up.

“Could you come and live with me for a month?” sheenquired. “I believe we might try the experiment. I daresayyou would rub me when I want rubbing, and go errandsand help me up and down stairs and carry things for me.It just happens that my old Jane has been obliged to leaveme because she’s beginning to be as rheumatic as I ammyself, and her daughter offers her a good home. Wouldyou like to try? I don’t promise to do more than make theexperiment.”

“You may guess whether I’m likely to say ‘yes’ or not,”she said. “I ain’t had a crust to-day. I believe I couldlearn to suit you. But I never expected anything as goodas this to happen to me. Thank you, ma’am. May I—whenmust I come?”

“Take off your bonnet and go and have your dinner, andstay now,” answered Miss Amory.

When John Baird called later in the day, Miss Amory waswalking in the sun in her garden and Susan was with her,supporting her stiff steps. She had been fed, her dress hadbeen changed for a neat print, and the dragged lines of herface seemed already to have relaxed. She no longer worethe look of a creature who is hungry and does not knowhow long her hunger may last and how much worse it maybecome.

“I am much obliged to you, Miss Amory,” Baird saidwhen he joined her, and he said it almost impetuously. To-dayhe was in the state of mind when even vicarious good202deeds are a support and a consolation. To have been a meansof doing a good turn even to this stray creature was a comfort.

Miss Amory removed her hand from Susan’s arm andallowed Baird to place it on his own. The girl went awayin obedience to a gesture.

“She will do,” said Miss Amory, “and it is a home forher. She’s not stupid. If she fulfils the promise of herfirst day I may end by interesting myself in developing herbrains. She has brains. The gray matter is there, but ithas never moved much so far. It will be interesting to setit astir. But it was not that I thought of when I took her.”

“For Margery’s sake,” put in Miss Amory. “MargeryLatimer. When Susan was in trouble the child was a tenderlittle angel to her. Lord! what a pure little heart it was!”

“As pure as young Eve’s in the Garden of Eden—as pureas young Eve’s,” murmured Baird.

“Just that!” said Miss Amory, rather sharply. “Howdo you know it?” And she turned and looked at him.“You have heard her brother say a good deal of her.”

“Well, well!” with emotional abruptness. “I took thisgirl for her sake. Her short life was not wasted if another’sis built upon it. That’s one of my fantastic fancies, I suppose.Stop a minute.”

The old woman paused a few moments on the garden203walk and turned her face upward to look at the blue heightand expanse of sky. There was a shade of desperate appealor question on her uplifted, rugged countenance.

“When the world gets too much for me,” she said, “andI lose my patience with the senselessness of the tragedy ofit, I get a sort of courage from looking up like this—intothe height and the still, clear blueness. It sends no answerback to me—that my human brain can understand—but itmakes me feel that perhaps there is no earth at all. I getout of it and away.”

“Yes,” she answered, “I should think that perhaps youare one of those who know. But one has to have been desperatebefore one turns to it as a resource. It’s a last one—andthe unmerciful powers only know why we shouldfeel it a resource at all. As I said, it does not answer back.And we want answers—answers.”

“That poor thing has been a woman at least,” said MissAmory. “I have been a sort of feminine automaton. Ihave been respectable and she has not. All good womenare not respectable and all respectable women are not good.That’s a truism so absolute that it is a platitude, and yetthere still exist people to whom it would appear a novelstatement. That poor creature has loved and had her heartbroken. She has suffered the whole gamut of things. Shehas been a wife without a name, a mother without a child.She is full of crude tragedy. And I have found out alreadythat she is good—good.”204

“You are drawing me out,” she said. “I’m not reallyworth it. Goodness is quite different from respectability.Respectability is a strict keeping of the laws men have madeto oblige other men to do or not to do the things they wantdone or left undone. The large meaning of the law is punishment.No law, no punishment; no punishment, no law.And man made both for man. If you keep man’s law youwill be respectable, but you may not be good. Jesus Christwas not respectable—no one will deny that. Goodness, afterall, means doing all kindness to all creatures, and, above all,doing no wrong to any. That’s all. Are you good?”

“You would probably find it more difficult to be so thanI should,” she responded. “And I find it hard enough—withoutbeing handicapped by beauty and the pleasure-lovingtemperament. You were started well on the road to thedevil when you were born. Your very charms and virtueswere ready to turn out vices in disguise. But when suchthings happen——” and she shrugged her lean shoulders.“As we have no one else to dare to blame, we can only blameourselves. In a scheme so vague every man must be hisown brake.”

Baird drew a sharp breath. “If one only knew that earlyenough,” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” she said, “part of the vagueness of the scheme—ifitis a scheme—is that it takes half a lifetime to find itout. Before that, we are always either telling ourselves thatwe are not going to do any harm, or that we are under theguidance of a merciful Providence.”205

“That we are not going to do any harm,” Baird repeated,“that we are not going to do any harm. And suddenly it’sdone.”

The girl, Susan Chapman, was watching them from a windowas they walked and talked. She bit her lips anxiouslyas she stood behind the curtain. She was trying to imaginewhat they might be saying to each other. Suppose it wassomething which told against her. And why should it notbe so? What good could be said? Janway’s Mills had bornein upon her the complete sense of her outcast state. Whileprofessing a republican independence of New England spirit,the place figuratively touched its forehead to the earth beforeMiss Starkweather. She lived on an income inheritedfrom people who had owned mills instead of working them;who employed—and discharged—hands. She would havebeen regarded as an authority on any subject, social or moral.And yet it was she who had spoken the first lenient wordto a transgressor of the unpardonable type. Susan had beendumfounded at first, and then she had begun to be afraidthat the leniency arose from some mistake Miss Amorywould presently discover.

“Perhaps he’s heard and he’s telling her now,” she said,breathlessly, as she looked into the garden. “Maybe she’llcome in and order me out.” She looked down at her cleandress, and a sob rose in her throat at the realisation of themere physical comfort she had felt during the last hour ortwo—the comfort of being fed and clothed and enclosedwithin four walls. If she was to be cast back into outerdarkness again it would be better to know at once.

When Baird had gone away and Miss Amory was sittingby her window, Susan appeared before her again with an206ashen complexion and a set look. She stood a moment, hesitating,her hands clasping her elbows behind her back.

“Yes,” the girl answered. “Yes, I do—an’ I don’t knowhow. Are you sure, ma’am, are you sure you know quitehow bad I have been?”

She said it with an impartiality so serenely free from condemnationthat Susan’s obedient sitting down was almostentirely the result of not being able to stand up. She, soto speak, fell into a chair and leaned forward, covering herface with her hands.

“By experience I know next to nothing,” Miss Amoryanswered, “but my imagination and my reason tell me agreat deal. You were not married and you had a child.You lost your health and your work——”

“I would have worked,” said the girl from behind herhands, sobbingly, but without tears. “Oh, I would haveworked till I dropped—I did work till I dropped. I keptfainting—Oh! I would have been glad and thankful andgrateful——”

“Yes,” said Miss Amory, “life got worse and worse—theyall treated you as if you were a dog. Those commonvirtuous people are like the torturers of the Inquisition.You were hungry and cold—cold and hungry——”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Susan moaned. “Youdon’t know. When you get sick and hollow and cramped,and stagger about in your bare room—and call out to yourselfto ask what made you and where is it. And the wind’slike ice—and you huddle in a heap——”

“And there are lights in the streets,” said Miss Amory,207“and it seems as if there must be something there to begiven to you by somebody—somebody. And you go out.”

“You do know,” she cried, almost with passion. “Somehowyou’ve found out what it’s like. I wanted you toknow. I don’t want you—not to understand and thenof a sudden to send me away. I’m soafraid of you sendingme away.”

“I shall not send you away for anything you have donein the past,” said Miss Amory.

“I don’t know what I should have done in the future,if you hadn’t taken me in,” Susan said. “Perhaps I shouldhave thrown myself under a train. But, oh!” with startingdampness in her skin, which she wiped off with a sick gesture,“I didhate to let myself think of it. It wasn’t thebeing killed—that’s nothing—but feeling yourself crushedand torn and twisted—I used to stand and shake all overthinking of it. And I couldn’t have gone on. I hatedmyself—I hated everything—most of all I hated the Thingthat made me. What right had it? I hadn’t done nothingto it before I was born. Seemed like it had made me justfor the fun of pushing me under them wheels and seeingthem tear and grind me. Oh! how I hated it!”

“So have I,” said Miss Amory, her steady eyes lookingmore like a hawk’s than ever.

Susan stared more than before. “I suppose I ought tohave hated Jack Williams,” she went on, her throat evidentlyfilling, “but I never did. I loved him. Seemedlike I was just his wife, that it did. I believe it alwayswill. That’s the way girls get into trouble. Some manthat’s got an affectionate way makes ’em believe they’reas good as married. An’ then they find out it’s all a lie.”208

“Perhaps you wouldn’t look at him,” Miss Amory remarked,with speculative slowness.

“Yes, I would,” said Susan, “yes I would. I couldn’ttrust him same as I did before—’cause he’s proved he ain’tto be trusted. But if he wanted me to marry him I couldn’thold out, Miss Starkweather.”

“Couldn’t you?” Miss Amory said, still speculative. “No—perhapsyou couldn’t.”

“I’m not one of the strong ones—I’m not one of thestrong ones—no more than little Margery was.”

She said the last words with a kind of unconscious consciousness.While she uttered them her mind had evidentlyturned back to other times—not her own, but little Margery’s.

“Miss Starkweather,” she said, “do you think that agirl’s being—like me—would make her evil-minded?Would it make her suspicion things, and be afraid of them—whenthere wasn’t nothin’? I should think that it would,”quite wistfully.

“It might,” answered Miss Amory, her knitting-needlesflying; “but for God’s sake don’t call yourself evil-minded.You’d be evil-minded if you wereglad to suspect—not ifyou were sorry and afraid.”209

“Glad!” with a groan. “Oh, Lord, I guess not. ButI might be all wrong all the same, mightn’t I?”

“I loved her—oh, Lord, I did love her! I’d reason to,”the girl went on, and her manner had the effect of frightenedhaste. “I’ve suffered awful sometimes—thinkin’ in thenight and prayin’ there wasn’t nothin’. She was such a delicate,innocent little thing. It would have killed her.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Susan answered, hysterically. “Idon’t. I only knew she couldn’t bear nothin’ like—likelyin’ awake nights gaspin’ an’ fightin’ with awful fear. Shecouldn’t—she couldn’t.”

“But there are girls—women, who have to bear it,” saidMiss Amory. “Good God, whohave to!”

“Yes—yes—yes,” cried Susan. She drew her hand acrossher brow as if suddenly it felt damp, and for a moment hereyes looked wild with a memory of some awful thing. “Itold her so,” she said.

“I didn’t go to,” she answered. “It was like this. Thatlast time she came to see me—to tell me how ill she wasand how Lucien was going to take her away—I’d been lookin’at the little clothes I’d got ready for—it.” The tearsbegan to roll fast down her cheeks. “Oh, Miss Starkweather!they was lyin’ on the bed—an’ she saw ’em an’turned as white as a sheet.”

“She said she didn’t know how people couldbear it,”Susan hurried on, “an’ I said—just like you did—that theyhad to bear it.”

“You were thinking of yourself,” said Miss Amory. Shefelt and looked a little sick.

“Yes,” said Susan, “I was thinkin’ of how it is whena girl’s goin’ to have a child an’ can’t get away from it—can’t—can’t.She’s got to go through with it—an’ no onecan’t save her. But I suppose it made her think of her deaththat was comin’—her death that I b’lieve she knowed shewas struck for. When I’d said it she looked like some littlehunted animal dogs was after—that had run till its breathwas gone an’ its eyes was startin’ from its head. Her littlechest went up an’ down with pantin’. I didn’t wonder whenI heard after that she’d dropped in the street in a dead faint.”

“Was that the day I picked her up as she lay on thepavement?” Miss Amory asked.

“She has had time to forget,” she said, rather as if shewas out of breath—“forget and grow quiet. She is dustby now—peaceful dust. Let us—my good girl—let us rememberthat happy story of how she died.”

“Yes,” answered Susan, “in Italy—lying before the openwindow—with the sunset all rosy in the sky.”

But her head rested on her folded arms upon her knee,and she sobbed a low, deep sob.

Just before the breaking out of the Civil War, Delislevillehad been provided with a sensation in a piece of singularlyunexpected good fortune which befell one of its mostprominent citizens. It was indeed good fortune, wearingsomewhat the proportions of a fairy tale, and that such thingscould happen in Delisleville and to a citizen who possessedits entire approval was considered vaguely to the credit ofthe town.

One of the facts which had always been counted as anadded dignity to the De Willoughbys had been their well-knownpossession of property in land. “Land” was alwaysfelt to be dignified, and somehow it seemed additionally sowhen it gained a luxuriously superfluous character by merelylying in huge, uncultivated tracts, and representing nothingbut wide areas and taxes.

“Them big D’Willerbys of D’lisleville owns thousands ofacres as never brings ’em a cent,” Mr. Stamps had said tohis friends at the Cross-roads at the time Big Tom had firstappeared among them. It was Mr. Stamps who had astutelysuggested that the stranger was possibly “kin” to the Delislevillefamily, and in his discreet pursuit of knowledge hehad made divers discoveries.

“’Twarn’t Jedge D’Willerby bought the land,” he wenton to explain, “‘n’ it seems like he would hev bin a foolto hev done it, bein’ as ’tain’t worked an’ brings in nothin’.But ye never know how things may turn out. ’Twas the212Jedge’s gran’father, old Isham D’Willerby bought it fer akinder joke. Some said he was blind drunk when he doneit, but he warn’t so drunk but what he got a cl’ar title, an’he got it mighty cheap too. Folks ses as he use ter laughan’ say he war goin’ to find gold on it, but he never dugfer none—nor fer crops nuther, an’ thar it lies to-day in themountains, an’ no one goin’ nigh it.”

In truth, Judge De Willoughby merely paid his taxes uponit from a sense of patriarchal pride.

“My ancestor bought it,” he would say. “I will handit to my sons. In England it would be an estate for anearldom, here it means merely tax-paying. Still, I shall notsell it.”

Nobody, in fact, would have been inclined to buy it inthose days. But there came a time when its value increasedhour by hour in the public mind, until it was almost beyondcomputation.

A chance visitor from the outside world made an interestingdiscovery. On this wild tract of hill and forest wasa vein of coal so valuable that, to the practical mind of thediscoverer, the Judge’s unconsciousness of its existence wasamazing. He himself was a practical, driving, businessschemer from New York. He knew the value of what hesaw, and the availability of the material in consequence ofa certain position in which the mines lay. Before he leftDelisleville he had explained this with such a presentingof facts that the Judge had awakened to an enthusiasmas Southern as his previous indifference had been. He hadno knowledge of business methods; he had practised hisprofession in a magnificentdilettante sort of way which hadworn an imposing air and impressed his clients, and, as hewas by inheritance a comparatively rich man, he had not213been driven by necessity to alter his methods. The suddenprospect of becoming a multimillionaire excited him. Hemade Napoleonic plans, and was dignified and eloquent.

“Why should I form a company?” he said. “If I amwilling to make the first ventures myself, the inevitable returnsof profit will do the rest, and there will be no complications.The De Willoughby Mine will be the De WilloughbyMine alone. I prefer that it should be so.”

The idea of being sole ruler in the scheme made him feelrather like a king, and he privately enjoyed the sensation.He turned into money all the property he could avail himselfof; his library table was loaded with books on mining;he invested in tons of machinery, which were continuallyarriving from the North, or stopping on the way when itshould have been arriving. He sent for engineers fromvarious parts of the country and amazed them with the unprofessionalboldness of his methods. He really indulgedin a few months of dignified riot, of what he imagined tobe a splendidly executive nature. The plans were completed,the machinery placed, the engineers and cohortsof workmen engaged in tremendous efforts, the Judge wasbeginning to reflect on the management of his future millions,when—the first gun was fired on Fort Sumter.

That was the beginning, and apparently the end. Suddenlythe storm of war broke forth, and its tempest, surgingthrough the land, swept all before it. The country wasinundated with catastrophes, capitalists foundered, schemeswere swamped, the armies surged to and fro. The De Willoughbyland was marched and fought over; scores of hasty,shallow graves were dug in it and filled; buildings and machinerywere destroyed as if a tornado had passed by. TheJudge was a ruined man; his realisable property he had214allowed to pass from his hands, his coal remained in thebowels of the earth, the huge income he was to have drawnfrom it had melted into nothingness.

Nothing could have altered the aspect of this tragedy;but there was a singular fact which added to its intensityand bitterness. In such a hot-bed of secession as was Delisleville,the fact in question was indeed not easily explainable,except upon the grounds either of a Quixotic patriotismor upon those of a general disposition to contradictoriness.A Southern man, the head of a Southern family, theJudge opposed the rebellion and openly sided with the Government.That he had been a man given to argument andcontradiction, and always priding himself upon refusing tobe led by the majority was not to be denied.

“He is fancying himself a Spartan hero, and looking forwardto laurels and history,” one of his neighbours remarked.“It is like De Willoughby after all. He would have beena Secessionist if he had lived in Boston.”

“The Union General George Washington fought for andhanded down to usI will protect,” the Judge said loftilyhimself.

But there was no modifying the outburst of wonder andcondemnation which overwhelmed him. To side with theUnion—in an aristocratic Southern town—was to lose socialcaste and friends, to be held a renegade and an open, degradedtraitor to home and country. At that period, to theSoutherner the only country was the South—in the Northreigned outer darkness. Had the Judge been a poor white,there would have been talk of tar and feathers. As a manwho had been a leader among the aristocratic classes, hewas ostracized. In the midst of his financial disasters hewas treated as an outlaw. He had been left a widower a215few years before, during the war his son De Courcy diedof fever, Romaine fell in battle, and his sole surviving daughterlost her life through diphtheria contracted in a soldiers’hospital. The family had sunk into actual poverty; theshock of sorrows and disappointment broke the old man’sspirit. On the day that peace was finally declared he diedin his room in the old house which had once been so fullof young life and laughter and spirit.

The only creature with him at the time was his grandson,young Rupert De Willoughby, who was De Courcy’s son.The sun was rising, and its first beams shone in at the openwindow rosily. The old Judge lay rubbing his hands slowlytogether, perhaps because they were cold.

“Only you left, Rupert,” he said, “and there were somany of us. If Tom—if Tom had not been such a failure—don’tknow whether he’s alive—or dead. If Tom——”

His hands slowly ceased moving and his voice trailed offinto silence. Ten minutes later all was over, and Rupertstood in the world entirely alone.

For the next two years the life the last De Willoughbylived in the old house, though distinctly unique, was notfavourable to the development of youth. Having been preparedfor the practice of the law, after the time-honouredDe Willoughby custom, and having also for some monthsoccupied a corner in the small, unbusiness-like, tree-shaded,brick building known as the Judge’s “office,” Rupert satnow at his grandfather’s desk and earned a scant living byendeavouring to hold together the old man’s long-diminishedpractice. The profession at the time offered nothingin such places as Delisleville, even to older and more experienced216men. No one had any money to go to law with,few had any property worth going to law about.

Both armies having swept through it, Delisleville worein those days an aspect differing greatly from its old air ofhospitable well-being and inconsequent good spirits andgood cheer. Its broad verandahed houses had seen hardusage, its pavements were worn and broken, and in manystreets tufted with weeds; its fences were dilapidated, itsrich families had lost their possessions, and those who had notbeen driven away by their necessities were gazing aghast ata future to which it seemed impossible to adjust their ease-loving,slave-attended, luxurious habits of the past. Housesbuilt of wood, after the Southern fashion, do not well withstandneglect and ill-fortune. Porticos and pillars and trellis-workwhich had been picturesque and imposing when theyhad been well cared for, and gleamed white among creepersand trees, lost their charm drearily when paint peeled off,trees were cut down, and vines were dragged away and died.Over the whole of the once gay little place there had fallenan air of discouragement, desolation, and decay. Financialdisaster had crippled the boldest even in centres much moreenergetic than small, unbusiness-like Southern towns; thecountry lay, as it were, prostrate to recover strength, andall was at a standstill.

Finding himself penniless, Rupert De Willoughby livedin a corner of the house he had been brought up in. Suchfurniture as had survived the havoc of war and the entiredilapidation of old age, he had gathered together in threeor four rooms, which he occupied with the one servant goodfortune brought to his door at a time when the forlornnessof his changed position was continually accentuated by theuntidy irregularity of his life and surroundings. He was217only able to afford to engage the shiftless services of a slatternlynegro girl, rendered insubordinate by her newly acquiredfreedom, and he had begun to feel that he shouldnever again find himself encompassed by the decorous systemof a well-managed household.

It was at this juncture that Uncle Matthew arrived andpresented his curious petition, which was that he shouldbe accepted as general servant, with wages or without them.

He had not belonged to Judge De Willoughby, but toa distant relative, and, as he was an obstinate and conservativeold person, he actually felt that to be “a free nigger”was rather to drop in the social scale.

“Whar’s a man stand, sah, if he ain’t got no fambly?”he said to Rupert when he came to offer his services to him.“He stan’ nowhar, that’s war he stan’; I’ve got to own upto it, Marse Rupert, I’se a ’ristycrat bawn an’ bred, an’ I’low to stay one, long’s my head’s hot. Ef my old mars’sfambly hadn’t er gone fo’th en’ bin scattered to de fo’ win’sof de university, I’d a helt on, but when de las’ of ’umwent to dat Europe, dey couldn’t ’ford to take me, an’ Ihad ter stay. An’ when I heerd as all yo’ kin was gone an’you was gwine to live erlone like dis yere, I come to ax yerto take me to wait on yer—as a favier, Marse Rupert—asafavier. ’Tain’t pay I wants, sah; it’s a fambly name an’a fambly circle.”

“It’s not much of a circle, Uncle Matt,” said Rupert,looking round at the bareness of the big room he sat in.

“’Tain’t much fer you, suh,” answered Uncle Matthew,“but it’s a pow’fle deal fer me in dese yere days. Ef yerdon’t take me, fust thing I knows I’ll be drivin’ or waitin’on some Mr. Nobody from New York or Boston, an’ seemslike I shouldn’t know how to stand it. ’Scuse me a-recommendin’218myself, sah—Ilook ole, but I ain’t as ole as I look;I’se l’arnt to cook, sah, from three womens what I wasmarried to, an’ I knows my place an’ how to keep houselike it orter be kep’. Will you try me a mont’, Marse DeWilloughby—will you try me a week?”

Rupert tried him and never regretted the venture. Infact, Uncle Matt’s accomplishments were varied for practicalreasons. He had been in his time first house servant, thencoachman; he had married at twenty a woman of forty,who had been a sort of female mulatto Vatel. When shehad died, having overheated herself and caught cold on theoccasion of a series of great dinners given at a triumphantpolitical crisis, he had taken for his second wife the womanwhose ambition it had been to rival her in her culinary arts.His third marriage had been even more distinguished. Hiswife had been owned by some extravagantly rich Creoles inNew Orleans, and had even lived with them during a yearspent in France, thereby gaining unheard-of culinary accomplishments.Matthew had always declared that he loved herthe best of the three. Those matrimonial ventures had beena liberal education to him. He had learned to cook almostas well as his first, and from his second and third he hadinherited methods and recipes which were invaluable. Heseemed to have learned to do everything. He dismissed theslatternly negro girl and took upon himself the duties ofboth man and woman servant. The house gradually worea new aspect—dust disappeared, windows were bright, thescant furniture was arranged to the best possible advantage,the scant meals were marvels of perfect cookery and neatserving. Having prepared a repast, Uncle Matt donned anancient but respectable coat and stood behind his youngmaster’s chair with dignity. The dramatic nature of his219race was strongly appealed to by the situation in which hefound himself. A negro of his kind is perfectly capable ofbuilding a romance out of much smaller materials. Theamiable vanity which gave such exalted value to all the belongingsof their masters in their days of slavery, and whichso delighted in all picturesqueness of surrounding, is thebest of foundations for romances. From generation to generationcertain circumstances and qualities had conferreda sort of distinction upon their humbleness; to be ownedby an aristocrat, to live in a great house, to wait upon youngmasters who were handsome and accomplished and youngmistresses who were beautiful and surrounded by worshippers,to be indispensable to “de Jedge” or “de Cun’l,” orto travel as attendant because some brilliant young son orlovely young daughter could find no one who would waiton them as “Uncle Matt” or “Aunt Prissy” could—thesethings made life to be desired and filled it with excitementand importance.

To the halcyon days in which such delights were possibleUncle Matt belonged. He was too old to look forward; hewanted his past again; and to find himself the sole faithfulretainer in a once brilliant household, with the chance ofmaking himself indispensable to the one remaining scion ofan old name, assisted him to feel that he was a relic of departedgrandeur.

His contrivances were numberless. In a corner of whathe called the “back gyarden” he constructed an enclosurefor chickens. He bought two or three young fowls, and bymarvels of management founded a family with them. Thefamily once founded, he made exchanges with friendly colouredmatrons of the vicinity, with such results in breedingthat “Uncle Matt’s” chickens became celebrated fowls. He220displayed the same gifts in the management of the garden.In a few months after his arrival, Rupert began to find himselfsitting down before the kind of meal he had not expectedto contemplate again.

“Uncle Matt,” he said, “where do I get fried chickenand vegetables like these—and honey and fresh butter andcream? I don’t pay for them.”

“Yes, you do, sah. Yo’ property pays for ’em. Dat ’argyarden, sah, is black with richness—jest black. It’s aforchen for a pusson what kin contrive an’ make fren’s, an’trade, an’ kin flourish a spade. Dar’s fruit-trees an’ grape-vinesdar—an’ room enuf to plant anything—an’ richnessenuf to make peas an’ taters an’ beets an’ cabbages jest jumpout o’ de yarth. I’ve took de liberty of makin’ a truckpatch, an’ I’ve got me a chicken coop, an’ I’ve had mightygood luck with my aigs an’ my truck—an’ I’ve got thingsto trade with the women folks for what Iain’t got. Deladies likes tradin’, an’ dey’s mighty neighbourly aboutyeah, ’memberin’ yo’ fambly, sah.”

Rupert leaned back in his chair and broke into a hearty,boyish laugh, which it was very good both to see and hear.He very seldom laughed.

“I wish I was a genius like you, Matt,” he said. “Whatluck I’m in to have you. Raising chickens and vegetables,and negotiating with your lady friends for me! I feel likea caliph with a grand vizier. I never tasted such chickenor such waffles in my life!”

“I’m settin’ some tukkey-eggs now—under de yallerhen,” said Matt, with a slyly exultant grin. “She’s a goodmother, the yaller hen; an’ de way dem fruit-trees is gwineter be loaded is a sight. Aunt Mary Field, she’s tradin’ withme a’ready agin fruit puttin’-up time.”221

Rupert got up from his chair. He caught old Matt’sdusky, yellow-palmed paw in his hand and shook it hard.His gloomy young face had changed its aspect, his eyes suddenlylooked like his mother’s—and Delia Vanuxem hadbeen said to have the loveliest soft eyes in all the South.

“Matt,” he said, “I couldn’t do without you. It isn’tonlythat,” with a gesture towards the table, “you—it’salmost as if you had come to save me.”

“Ole nigger man like me, Marse Rupert,” said UncleMatt, “savin’ of a fine young gentleman like what you is!How’s I gwine ter do it?” But his wrinkled face lookedtremulous with emotion. “Times is gwine ter change foryou, they is, an’ Matt’s gwine ter stay by yer till dat cometo pass. Marse Rupert,” looking at him curiously, “I ’clarto Gawd you look like yo’ young mammy did. Yo’ ain’t always,but jes’ dish yer minnit yo’ does—an’ yer did jes’now when yer laf’.”

“Do I look like her?” said Rupert. “I’m glad of it.I want to be like her. Say, Uncle Matt, whenever I lookor speak or act like her, you tell me.”

When in the course of neighbourly conversation Mattmentioned this to his friend Aunt Mary Fields, she put anew colour upon it.

“He worshipped his maw, an’ she jest ’dored down onhim,” she said; “but ’tain’t only he want look like her,hedoan’ want look like his paw. Ev’one know what Cun’lde Courcy was—an’ dat chile jest ’spise him. He was allusa mons’ous proud chile, and when de Cun’l broke loose an’went on one o’ his t’ars, it mos’ ’stroyed dat boy wid dedisgracefulness. Dar’s chil’en as doan’ keer or notice—butdat boy, it ’most ’stroyed him.”

The big, empty-sounding house was kept orderly and222spotless, the back garden exhibited such vegetables as noone else owned, the fruit-trees and grape-vines throve, intime the flower-beds began to bloom brilliantly, the rose-bushesand shrubs were trimmed, the paths swept, and peoplebegan to apply to Uncle Matt for slips and seeds. Hehimself became quite young again, so inspired was he byhis importance and popularity. When he went into thetown upon errands, people stopped to talk to him; the youngbusiness or professional men called him into their officesto have a chat with him. He was such a respectable relicof the times which had been “better days” to all of them,that there were those who were almost confidential withhim. Uncle Matt would always understand their sentimentsand doctrines, and he was always to be relied on for anysmall service. Such a cocktail or julep no one else couldprepare, and there were numerous subtle accomplishmentsin the matter of mixing liquid refreshments which wouldhave earned a reputation for any man.

There was no more familiar figure than his in the marketor business streets of the hot, sunshine-flooded little town,which the passing armies had left so battered and deserted.

Uncle Matt knew all the stories in Delisleville. He knewhow one house was falling to pieces for lack of repairs; heheard of the horses that had been sold or had died of oldage and left their owners without a beast to draw their ricketybuggies or carriages; he was deeply interested in thefailing fortunes of what had once been the most important“store” in the town, and whose owner had been an aristocraticmagnate, having no more undignified connection withthe place than that of provider of capital.

As he walked up Main Street on his way to market, withhis basket on his arm, he saw who had been able to “lay223in new stock” and who had not. He saw the new sign-boardshung outside small houses which had been turnedinto offices. He knew what young scion of a respectablefamily had begun “doctoring” or “set up as a lawyer.”Sometimes he even dropped in and made brief visits ofrespectful congratulation.

“But,” he said privately to his young master, “de airob de atmosphere, it’s jest full of dem young lawyers an’doctors. Dar don’t seem to be nothin’ else for a gen’leman’ssons to do but to kyore people or go to law for ’em. Of cosedey oughtn’t ter hab ter work, gen’lemen oughtn’ter. Deydidn’t usen to heb ter, but now dey is gotter. Lawdy,Marse Rupert, you’ll hatter ’scuse me, but de young lawyers,an’ de young doctors, dey is scattered about dish yerD’lisleville!”

There were certain new sign-boards which excited himto great interest. There was one he never passed withoutpausing to examine and reflect upon it.

When he came within range of it on his way up the street,his pace would slacken, and when he reached it he wouldstop at the edge of the pavement and stand with his basketon his arm, gazing at the lettering with an absorbed air ofinterest and curiosity. It read, “Milton January, ClaimAgent.” He could not read, but he had heard commentsmade upon the profession of the owner of this sign-boardwhich had filled him with speculative thought. He sharedthe jealousy of strangers who came from “the North” toDelisleville and set up offices, which much more intelligentpersons than himself burned with. He resented them asintruders, and felt that their well-dressed air and alert, business-likemanner was an insult to departed fortunes.

“What they come fer?” he used to grumble. “Takin’224away trade an’ business when they ain’t none left for deproper people nohow. How’s we gwine ter live if all NewYork City an’ Bos’n an’ Philadelphy pours in?”

“They are not pouring in very fast, Uncle Matt,” Rupertanswered him once. “Perhaps it would be better for us ifthey did. They bringsome money, at any rate. There areonly one or two of them, and one is a claim agent.”

“Dat’s jest what I wants ter know,” said Matt. “What’sdey layin’ claim to? What right dey got ter claim anythin’?Gawd knows dar ain’t much ter claim.”

“They are not claiming thingsfrom people, butfor them.They look up claims against the Government and try to getindemnity for them. They prove claims to back pay, andfor damages and losses, and try to make the Governmentrefund.”

“Cun’l De Willoughby, now,” he said; “doan’ you s’posedar’s some back pay owin’ to him for de damage dat yallerfever done him wot he done cotch from de army?”

“What dey gwine to refun’, den?” said Matt. “Dat’swhat I’d like ter fin’ out. Dis hyer idee of refun’in’ pleaseme mightily. I’d be pow’fle glad to come bang up agin’some refun’in’ myself.”

From that time his interest in Milton January, ClaimAgent, increased week by week. He used to loiter abouttalking groups if he caught the sound of his name, in thehope of gathering information. He was quite shrewd enough225to realise his own entire ignorance of many subjects, andhe had the pride which prevented his being willing to commithimself.

“I ain’t nothin’ but a ole nigger,” he used to say. “Iain’t had no eddication like some er dese yere smarties whatkin read an’ cipher an’ do de double shuffle in de copy-book.Matt ain’t never rub his back ’gin no college wall. Bes’thing he knows is dat he doan’ know nothin’. Dat’s apow’fle useful piece o’ l’arnin’ to help a man, black or white,from makin’ a fool er hesself bigger dan what de good Lawd’tended him fer ter be. Matt he gradyuated in dat ’ar knowledgean’ got he stiffikit. When de good Lawd turn a manout a fool, he got terbe a fool, but he needn’ ter be a biggerfool den what hegotter.”

So he listened in the market, where he went every morningto bargain for his bit of beefsteak, or fish, or butter, andwhere the men and women who kept the stalls knew himas well as they knew each other. They all liked him andwelcomed him as he approached in his clean old clothes, hismarket basket on his arm, his hat set rather knowingly uponhis grizzled wool. He was, in fact, rather a flirtatious oldparty, and was counted a great wit, and was full of a shrewdhumour as well as of grandiloquent compliment.

“I has a jocalder way er talkin’, I ain’t gwine ter deny,”he would say when complimented upon his popularity withthe fair sex, “an’ dey ain’t nothin’ de ladies likes mo’ dana man what’s jocalder. Dey loves jokin’ an’ dey loves tolaff. It’s de way er de sect. A man what cayn’t be jocalderwith ’em, he hain’t no show.”

“What dis hyer claim agentin’ I’s hearin’ so much talkabout?” he enquired of a group one morning. “WhatIwants is ter get inter de innards of de t’ing, an’ den I’se226gwine to claim sump’n fer myse’f. If dar’s claimin’ gwineon, I’se a gen’leman what’s gwine to be on de camp-meetin’groun’, an’ fo’most ’mong de shouters.”

“What did ye lose by the war, Uncle Matt?” said acountryman, who was leaning against his market waggonof “produce” and chewing tobacco. “If ye kin huntup suthin’ ye lost, ye kin put in a claim fer the vally ofit, an’ mebbe get Government to give ye indemnity. Mebbeye kin an’ mebbe ye cayn’t. They ain’t keen to do it, butmebbe ye could work it through a smart agent like January.They say he’s as smart as they make ’em.”

It was a broiling July morning; only the people who wereobliged to leave their houses for some special reason wereto be seen in the streets; the market waggons which hadcome in from the country laden with vegetables and chickensand butter were drawn up under the shadow of the markethouse, that their forlorn horses or mules might escapethe glaring hot sun. The liveliest business hour had passed,and about the waggons a group of market men and womenand two or three loiterers were idling in the shade, waitingfor chance-belated customers. There was a general drawingnear when Uncle Matt began his conversation. They alwayswanted to hear what he had to say, and always respondedwith loud, sympathetic guffaws to his “jocalder” remarks.

“He’s sech a case, Uncle Matt is,” the women would say,“I never seen sich a case.”

When the countryman spoke, Uncle Matt put on an expressionof dignified thoughtfulness. It was an expressionhis audience were entirely familiar with and invariablygreeted with delight.

“Endurin’ of de war,” he said, “I los’ severial things.Fust thing I memberize of losin’ was a pa’r of boots. Dar227was a riggiment passin’ at de time, an’ de membiers of datriggiment had been footin’ it long enough to have wo’ outa good deal er shoe-leather. They was thusty an’ hungry,an’ come to de halt near my cabin to require if dar warn’tno vittles lyin’ roun’ loose for de good er de country. Whendey was gone, my new boots was gone, what I’d jest brunghome from de cobbler.”

“Dat ’ar incerdent stirred up my paketriotit feelin’s consider’bleat de moment. I couldn’t seem to see it in de lightwhat p’raps I oughter seen it in. I rared roun’ a good deal,an’ fer a moment er two, I didn’t seem tar mind which sidebeat de oder. Jest dat ’casion. I doan’ say de sentimentcontinnered on, but jest dat ’casion seemed ter me like darwas a Yank somewhars es I wouldn’t hev ben agin seein’takin’ a whuppin’ from some’un, Secesh or no Secesh.”

“Well, I lose a wife—kinder cook dat dar ain’t no ’demnitykin make up fer when de Lawd’s removed ’em. An’’pears to me right dar, dat if I wusn’t a chu’ch member, Ished be led on ter say dat, considerin’ what a skaseness ergood cooks dar is, seems like de good Lawd’s almost wastefulan’ stravagant, de way he lets ’em die off. Three uv ’em he’moved from me to a better worl’. Not as I’m a man what’dwanter be sackerligious; but ’pears to me dar was mo’ wukfur ’em to do in dis hyer dark worl’ er sin dan in de realmser glory. I may be wrong, but dat’s how it seem to a porenigger like me.”

“The Government won’t pay for yer wife, Matt,” said theowner of the market waggon.

“Dat dey won’t, en dat dey cayn’t,” said Matt. “Dat228las’ woman’s gumbo soup warn’t a thing to be ’demnifiedfer, dat it warn’t. But what I’m a aimin’ at is to fin’ outwhat deywill pay fer, en how much. Dar was one mawnin’I sot at my do’ reflectin’ on de Gawsp’l, an’ de Yanks comejest a tarin’ down de road, licketty switch, licketty switch,yellin’ like de debil let loose, en firin’ of dere pistols, an’ Igotter ’fess I los’ a heap a courage dat time—an’ I los’ aheap o’ breath runnin’ ’way from ’em en outer sight. NowI know de Gov’ment not gwine ter pay me fer losin’ demthings, but whatis dey gwine pay for losin’?”

“Property, they say—crops ‘n’ houses, ‘n’ barns, ‘n’ truckwuth money.”

Uncle Matt removed his hat, and looked into the crownof it as if for instruction before he wiped his forehead andput it on again.

“Aye-yi! Dey is, is dey?” he said. “Property—enhouses, en barns, en truck wuth money? Dey’ll hev a plentyto pay, ef dey begins dat game, won’t dey? Dey’ll hev terdig down inter de Gov’ment breeches pocket pretty deep,dat dey will. Doan’ see how de Pres’dent gwine ter do itout’n what dey ’lows him, less’n dey ’lows him mighty bigpocket money.”

“’Tain’t the President, Matt,” said one of the crowd.“It’s the Nation.”

“Oh, it’s de Nation!” said Matt. “De Nation. Well,Mr. Nation gwine fin’ he got plenty ter do—earlyen late.”

This was not the last time he led the talk in the directionof Government claims, and in the course of his marketingsand droppings into various stores and young lawyers’ offices,he gathered a good deal of information. Claims upon theGovernment had not been so far exploited in those days asthey were a little later, and knowledge of such business and229its processes was not as easily obtainable by unbusiness-likepersons.

One morning, as he stood at the street corner nearest theClaim Agent’s office, a little man came out of the place, andby chance stopped to cool himself for a few moments underthe shade of the very maple tree Uncle Matt had chosen.

He was a very small man, wearing very large pantaloons,and he had a little countenance whose expressionwas a curious combination of rustic vacancy and incongruousslyness. He was evidently from the country, andUncle Matt’s respectable, in fact, rather aristocratic air, apparentlyattracted his attention.

“’Scuse me, sah,” said Matt, “’scuse me addressin’ of you,but dem ar Claim Agents——?”

“Hev ye got a claim?” said the little man in words thatwere slow, but with an air that was sharp. “I mean, hasanyone ye work fur got one?”

“Ye’d better make sartain,” said the little man. “Bein’es the thing’s started the way it hes, anyone es might hev aclaim an’ lets it lie, is a derned fool. I come from over themountain. My name’s Stamps, andI’ve got one.”

Uncle Matt regarded him with interest—not exactly withrespect, but with interest.

Stamps took off his battered broad-brimmed hat, wipedhis moist forehead and expectorated, leaning against thetree.

“Thar’s people in this town as is derned fools,” he remarked,sententiously. “Thar’s people in most every townin the Union as is derned fools. Most everybody’s got aclaim to suthin’, if they’d only got the common horse senseter look it up. Why, look at that yoke o’ oxen o’ mine—the230finest yoke o’ steers in Hamlin County. Would hev tookfust ticket at any Agricultural Fair in the United States. Iain’t goin’ to sacceryfist them steers to no Stars an’ Stripesas ever floated. The Guv’ment’sgot to pay me the wuth of’em down to the last cent.”

He gave Matt a sharp look with a hint of inquiry in it, asif he was asking either his hearer or himself a question, andwas not entirely certain of the answer.

“Now thar’s D’Willerby,” he went on. “Big Tom—TomD’Willerby lost enough, the Lord knows. Fust onearmy, ‘n’ then another layin’ holt on his stock as it comeover the road from one place an’ another, a-eatin’ of it up‘n’ a-wearin’ his goods made up into shirts ‘n’ the like-‘n’him left a’most cleaned out o’ everythin’. Why, TomD’Willerby——”

“I said D’Willerby,” answered Mr. Stamps. “That’swhat he’s called at the Cross-roads.”

“My young master’s name’s De Willoughby, sah,” Mattsaid; “‘n’ de names soun’s mighty simulious when dey’sspoke quick. My young Marse, Rupert De Willoughby, hede gran’son er Jedge De Willoughby, an’ de son an’ heir erCun’l De Courcy De Willoughby what died er yaller feverat Nashville.”

“Well, I’m doggoned,” the little man remarked, “I’dorter thought er thet. This yere’s Delisleville, ‘n’ I reckerlecthearin’ when fust he come to Hamlin thet he was somekin to some big bugs down ter D’lisleville, ‘n’ his father wasa Jedge—doggoned ef I didn’t!”

Rupert De Willoughby was lying upon the grass in thegarden under the shade of a tree. The “office” had beenstifling hot, and there had been even less to suggest any hopeof possible professional business than the blankness of mostdays held. There never was any business, but at rare intervalssomeone dropped in and asked him a question or so,his answers to which, by the exercise of imagination, mightbe regarded as coming under the head of “advice.” Hisclients had no money, however—nobody had any money; andhis affairs were assuming a rather desperate aspect.

He had come home through the hot streets with his strawhat pushed back, the moist rings of his black hair lyingon a forehead lined with a rather dark frown. He went intothe garden and threw himself on the grass in the shade.He could be physically at ease there, at least. The old gardenhad always been a pleasure to him, and on a hot summerday it was full of sweet scents and sounds he was fond of.At this time there were tangles of honeysuckle and bushesheavy with mock-orange; an arbour near him was coveredby a multiflora rose, weighted with masses of its small, delicateblossoms; within a few feet of it a bed of mignonettegrew, and the sun-warmed breathing of all these fragrantthings was a luxurious accompaniment to the booming ofthe bees, blundering and buzzing in and out of their flowers,and the summer languid notes of the stray birds which liton the branches and called to each other among the thickleaves.232

At twenty-three a man may be very young. Rupert wasboth young and old. His silent resentment of the shadowwhich he felt had always rested upon him, had become amorbid thing. It had led him to seclude himself from thegay little Delisleville world and cut himself off from youngfriendships. After his mother—who had understood histemperament and his resentment—had died, nobody caredvery much for him. The youth of Delisleville was picturesque,pleasure-loving, and inconsequent. It had little partiesat which it danced; it had little clubs which were vaguelymusical or literary; and it had an ingenuous belief in thetalents and graces displayed at these gatherings. The femininemembers of these societies were sometimes wonderfullylovely. They were very young, and had soft eyes and softSouthern voices, and were the owners of the tiniest archedfeet and the slenderest little, supple waists in the world.Until they were married—which usually happened veryearly—they were always being made love to and knew thatthis was what God had made them for—that they shoulddance a great deal, that they should have many flowers andbonbons laid at their small feet, that beautiful youths withsentimental tenor voices should serenade them with guitarson moonlight nights, which last charming thing led themto congratulate themselves on having been born in the South,as such romantic incidents were not a feature of life in NewYork and Boston. The masculine members were usuallylithe and slim, and often of graceful height; they frequentlypossessed their share of good looks, danced and rode well,and could sing love songs. As it was the portion of theirfair companions to be made love to, it was theirs to makelove. They often wrote verses, and they also were givento arched insteps and eyes with very perceptible fringes.233For some singular reason, it seems that Southern blood tendsto express itself in fine eyes and lashes.

But with this simply emotional and happy youth youngDe Willoughby had not amalgamated. Once he had goneto a dance, and his father the Colonel had appeared uponthe scene as a spectator in a state of exaggeratedly gracefulintoxication. He was in the condition when he was extremelygallant and paid flowery compliments to each pairof bright eyes he chanced to find himself near.

When he first caught sight of him, Rupert was waltzingwith a lovely little creature who was a Vanuxem and wasnot unlike the Delia Tom De Willoughby had fallen hopelesslyin love with. When he saw his father a flash of scarletshot over the boy’s face, and, passing, left him looking veryblack and white. His brow drew down into its frown, andhe began to dance with less spirit. When the waltz was atan end, he led his partner to her seat and stood a momentsilently before her, glancing under his black lashes at theColonel, who had begun to quote Thomas Moore and wasdeclaiming “The Young May Moon” to a pretty creaturewith a rather alarmed look in her uplifted eyes. It was thefirst dance at which she had appeared since she had leftschool.

Suddenly Rupert turned to his partner. He made hera bow; he was a graceful young fellow.

“Thank you, Miss Vanuxem. Thank you for the dance.Good-night. I am going home.”

“Are you?” exclaimed little Miss Vanuxem. “But itis so early, Mr. De Willoughby.”

“I have stayed just ten minutes too long now,” saidRupert. “Thank you again, Miss Vanuxem. Good-night.”

“I am going home,” he said, in a low, fierce voice; “youhad better come with me.”

“No sush thing,” answered the Colonel, gaily. “On’yjust come. Don’t go to roosh with shickens. Just quotingTom Moore to Miss Baxter.

The little beauty, who had turned with relieved delightto take the arm of a new partner, looked at her poetic admirerapologetically.

“Mr. Gaines has come for me, Colonel De Willoughby,”she said; “I am engaged to him for this dance.” Andshe slipped away clinging almost tenderly to the arm of herenraptured escort, who felt himself suddenly transformedinto something like a hero.

“Colonel De Willoughby is so flattering,” she said; “andhe has such a queer way of paying compliments. I’malmost frightened of him.”

“I will see that he does not speak to you again,” said herpartner, with an air of magnificent courage. “He shouldnot have been allowed to come in. You, of course, couldnot understand, but—the men who are here will protectthe ladies who are their guests.”

Rupert gave his father a long look and turned on his heel.He went home, and the next time the Terpsichorean Societyinvited him to a dance he declined to go.

“Nice fellow I am to go to such places,” he said to himself.“Liable to bring a drunken lunatic down upon themat any minute. No, the devil take it all, I’m going to stayat home!”235

He stayed at home, and gradually dropped out of theyoung, glowing, innocently frivolous and happy world altogether,and it carried on its festivities perfectly well withouthim. The selfishness of lovely youth is a guileless, joyousthing, and pathetic inasmuch as maturity realises the undueretribution which befalls it as it learns of life.

When poverty and loneliness fell upon him, the boy hadno youthful ameliorations, even though he was so touchinglyyoung. Occasionally some old friend of his grandfather’sencountered him somewhere and gave him ratherflorid good advice; some kindly matron, perhaps, asked himto come and see her; but there was no one in the place whocould do anything practical. Delisleville had never beena practical place, and now its day seemed utterly over. Itsgentlemanly pretence at business had received blows tooheavy to recover from until times had lapsed; in some ofthe streets tiny tufts of grass began to show themselves betweenthe stones.

As he had walked back in the heat, Rupert had observedthese tiny tufts of green with a new sense of their meaning.He was thinking of them as he lay upon the grass, the warmscent of the mock-orange blossoms and roses, mingled withhoneysuckle in the air, the booming of the bees among themultiflora blooms was in his ears.

“What can I do?” he said to himself. “There is nothingto be done here. There never was much, and now thereis nothing. I can’t loaf about and starve. I won’t beg frompeople, and if I would, I haven’t a relation left who isn’ta beggar himself—and there are few enough of them left.”

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a well-worngreenback. He straightened out its creases cautiously andlooked at it.236

“I’ve got two dollars,” he said, “and no prospect of gettingany more. Even Matt can’t make two dollars last long.”

The latch of the side gate clicked and the gate opened.Presently Uncle Matt appeared round the rose-bushes. Hehad his market basket on his arm and wore a thoughtfulcountenance.

Notwithstanding his darkling moods, he was in a subtleway singularly like Delia Vanuxem. He needed love andtenderness, and he was boy enough yet to be unhappy anddesolate through lack of them, though without quite knowingwhy. He knew Uncle Matt loved him, and the affectionatecare the old man surrounded him with was like a warmrobe wrapped about a creature suffering from chill. He hadnot analyzed his feeling himself; he only knew that he likedto hear his footsteps as he pottered about the house, andwhen he was at his dreariest, he was glad to see him comein, and to talk a little to him.

Uncle Matt came towards him briskly. He set his basketdown and took off his hat.

“Marse Rupert,” he said, “dis hyer’s a pow’fle scorcherof a mawnin’. Dem young lawyers as shets up dey officean’ comes home to lie in de grass in de shade, dey is follerin’up dey perfession in de profitablest way—what’ll be likelyto bring ’em de mos’ clients, ’cause, sho’s yo’ bawn, dere’ssunstroke an’ ’cussion or de brain just lopin’ roun’ distown—en a little hot brick office ain’t no place for ayoung man what got any dispect fur his next birfday.Dat’s so.”

“I haven’t much respect for mine,” said Rupert; “I’vehad twenty-two too many—just twenty-two.”237

“’Scusin’ me sayin’ it, sah, but dat ain’t no way ter talk.A man boun’ to have some dispect for his birfday—heboun’to! Birfdays gotter be took keer on. Whar’s a man whenhe runs out of ’em?”

“He’d better run out of them before he runs out of everythingelse,” said Rupert. “Matt, I’ve just made two dollarsthis month.”

“I’m very sorry, Matt,” he said, “I’m terribly sorry, butyou know—we can’t go on.”

“Marse Rupert, did you never heah nothin’ ’bout yourUncle Marse Thomas De Willoughby?”

Rupert was silent a moment before he answered, but itwas not because he required time to search his memory.

“Yes,” he said, and then was silent again. He had heardof poor Tom of the big heart from his mother, and therehad been that in her soft speech of him which had madethe great, tender creature very real. Even in his childhoodhis mother had been his passion, as he had been hers.Neither of them had had others to share their affection, andthey were by nature creatures born to love. His first memoryhad been of looking up into the soft darkness of thetender eyes which were always brooding over him. He hadbeen little more than a baby when he had somehow knownthat they were very sorrowful, and had realised that he lovedthem more because of their sorrow. He had been little olderwhen he found out the reason of their sadness, and fromthat time he had fallen into the habit of watching them,and knowing their every look. He always remembered the238look they wore when she spoke of Tom De Willoughby,and it had been a very touching one.

“Dar was a time, a long way back, Marse Rupert—’foreyou was borned—when I seemed to year a good deal ’boutMarse Thomas. Dat was when he went away in dat curi’sfashion. Nobody knowedwhar he went, an’ nobody knowedquitewhy. It wus jes’ afore ye’ maw an’ paw wus married.Some said him an’ de Jedge qua’lled ’cause Marse Thomashe said he warn’t gwine ter be no medical student, an’some said he was in love with some young lady dat wouldn’t’cept of him.”

“Dat dey did,” Matt said; “an’ a lot moah. But ev’rybodythink it mighty strange him a-gwine, an’ no one neverhuntin’ him up afterwards. Seemed most like dey didn’tkeer nothin’ ’bout him.”

“They didn’t, damn them!” said Rupert, with suddenpassion. “And he was worth the whole lot.”

“Dat what make I say what I gwine ter,” said Matt, withsome eagerness. “What I heerd about Marse Thomas makeme think he must be er mighty fine gen’leman, an’ onewhat’d be a good fren’ to anyone. An’ dishyer ve’y mawnin’I heerd sump’n mo’ about him.”

“About Uncle Tom!” he exclaimed. “You have heardsomething about Uncle Tom to-day?”

“I foun’ out whar he went, Marse Rupert,” said Matt,much roused. “I foun’ out whar heis dishyer ve’y instep.He’s in Hamlin County, keepin’ sto’ an’ post-office at Talbot’sCross-roads; an’, frum what I heah, Marse Tom DeWilloughby de mos’ pop’larist gen’leman an’ mos’ lookedup ter in de county.”239

Uncle Matt put his foot upon a rustic seat near and leanedforward, resting his elbow on his knee and making impressivegestures with his yellow-palmed old hand.

“It was dishyer claimin’ dat brung it about,” he said;“dishyer claimin’ an’ ’demnification what’s been a-settin’pow’fle heavy on my min’ fur long ’nuff. Soon’s I yeerdtell on it, Marse Rupert, it set me ter steddyin’. I beena-watchin’ out an’ axin’ questions fur weeks, an’ when Ifin’ out——”

“A heap, Marse Rupert. Him an’ you de onliest heirsto de De Willoughby estate; an’ ef a little hoosier what’slos’ a yoke er oxen kin come down on de Guv’ment for’demnification, why can’t de heirs of a gen’leman dat los’what wus gwine ter be de biggest fortune in de South’nStates. What’s come er dem gold mines, Marse Rupert,dat wus gwine ter make yo’ grandpa a millionaire—whar isdey? What de Yankees done with dem gol’ mines?”

“They weren’t gold mines, Uncle Matt,” said Rupert;“they were coal mines; and the Yankees didn’t carry themaway. They only smashed up the machinery and ruinedthings generally.”

But he laid back upon the grass again with his handsclasped behind his head and his brow drawn down thoughtfully.

“Coal mineser gol’ mines,” said Uncle Matt. “Guv’mentgotter ’demnify ef things er managed right; en dat whatmake me think er Marse Thomas De Willoughby when datlittle Stamps feller said somep’n dat soun’ like his name.‘Now dar’s D‘Willerby,’ he ses, ‘big Tom D‘Willerby,’ en240I jest jumped on him. ‘Did you say De Willoughby, sah?’I ses, an’ from dat I foun’ out de rest.”

“I should like to see him,” said Rupert; “I alwaysthought I should like to know where he was—if he wasalive.”

“Why doan’ you go an’ see him, den?” said Matt. “Jesttake yo’ foot in yo’ han’ an’ start out. Hamlin Countyain’t fur, Marse Rupert, an’ de Cross-roads Pos’-office mightyeasy to fin’; and when you fin’ it an’ yo’ uncle settin’ inde do’, you jest talk ter him ’bout dem gol’ mines an’ datclaimin’ business an’ ax his devise ’bout ’em. An’ ef yerdoan’ fin’ yo‘se’f marchin’ on ter Wash‘n’ton city an’ a-talkin’to de Pres’dent an’ de Senators, de whole kit an’ bilin’of ’em, Marse Thomas ain’t de buz’ness gen‘l’man what Ibelieve he is.”

Rupert lay still and looked straight before him, apparentlyat a bluebird balanced on a twig, but it was not thebird he was thinking of.

“You’se young, Marse Rupert, an’ it ’ud be purty dang’rousfor a onexperienced young gen‘l’man ter lan’ downin de midst er all dem onprinciple’ Yankees with a claimto hundreds of thousan’s of dollars. Marse Thomas, he’sa settled, stiddy gen‘l’man, en, frum what I hears, I guesshe’s got a mighty ’stablished-lookin’ ’pearance.”

“I should like to see him,” Rupert reflected aloud. “Ishould like to see him.”

The years had passed for the child Sheba so sweetly, andhad been so full of simple joys and pleasures, that theyseemed a panorama of lovely changing seasons, each a thingof delight. There was the spring, when she trotted by Tom’sside into the garden and he showed her the little, pale-greenpoints of the crocuses, hyacinths, and tulips pushing theirway up through the moist brown earth, and when he carriedher in his big arms into the woods on the hillsides, and theysaw the dogwood covered with big white flowers and thewild plum-trees snowed over with delicate blooms, and foundthe blue violets thick among the wet grass and leaves, andthe frail white wind-flowers quivering on their stems. Asthey went about in this new fairyland, which came everyyear, and which still seemed always a surprise, it was theirhabit to talk to each other a great deal. The confidencesthey had exchanged when the child had not been able tospeak, and which Tom had nevertheless understood, wereenchanting things when she became older and they strayedabout together or sat by the fire. Her child thoughts andfancies might have been those of some little faun or dryadShe grew up among green things, with leaves waving aboveand around her, the sun shining upon her, and the mountainsseeming to stand on guard, looking down at her fromday to day, from year to year. From behind one mountainthe sun rose every morning, and she always saw it; andbehind another it sank at night. After the spring camethe summer, when the days were golden and drowsy and242hot, and there were roses and other flowers everywhere; wildroses in the woods and by the waysides, heavy-headed beautiesin their own garden, and all the beds and vines a fineriot of colour. After these there were blackberries thickon their long brambles, and wild grapes in the woods, andpresently a delicious snap of cold in the clear air night andmorning, and the trees were dropping golden, amber, andscarlet leaves, while under the pale yellow ones which rustledbeneath the chestnut-trees, there were brown, glossy nuts,which fell one by one with a delightful suddenness of soundat irregular intervals. There were big chestnut-trees in thewoods near their house, and Tom and Sheba used to gobefore breakfast to look for the nuts which had fallen inthe night. Hamlin County always rose at sunrise, or beforeit, and to go out in the heavenly fresh morning air and walkthrough the rustling, thickly fallen yellow leaves under thetrees, making little darts of joy at the brown, glossy thingsbursting through their big burrs, was a delicious, excitingthing. Mornin’s hot breakfast held keen delights when theyreturned to it.

When the big wood-fires were lighted and there was snowand rain outside, and yams and chestnuts to roast in theashes, and stories to be told and talked over in the glow ofthe red birch-log and snapping, flaming hickory sticks, thechild used to feel as if she and Uncle Tom were even nearertogether and more comfortable than at any other time.

“Uncle Tom,” she said to him, as she was standing in thecircle of his arm on one such night, when she was aboutten years old. “Uncle Tom, we do love each other in thewinter, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do, Sheba,” answered Tom. “And we’re prettypartial to each other even in the summer.”243

“We love each other at all the times,” she said. “Andevery morning that I get up I love you more than I didwhen I went to bed—every morning, Uncle Tom.”

Tom kissed her. He remembered what he had said onemorning in the cabin in Blair’s Hollow ten years before.

She was fond of him. He was her very little life itself.No one had ever come between—nothing ever could.

She had by that time shot up into a tall, slender slipof a girl-child. She was passing, even with a kind of distinction,through the stage of being all long, slim legsand big eyes. The slim legs were delicately modelled andthe big eyes were like pools of gold-brown water, fringedwith rushes.

“I never seen a young ’un at thet thar young colty agees was es han’some es thet child o’ Big Tom’s,” Mis’ Dotyoften remarked.

By the frequenters of the Cross-roads Post-office she wasconsidered, as was her protector, a county institution. Whenshe had reached three years old, she had been measuredagainst the wall, and each year her increase of inches wasrecorded amid lively demonstrations of interest. The smallnessof her feet had also been registered, and the thicknessand growth of her curling hair ranked as a subject of discussiononly second in interest to the development of crops.

But this affection notwithstanding, a curious respect forher existed. She had played among them in the store inher little dusty pinafore; one and all of them had given herrustic offerings, bringing her special gifts of yellow popcornears, or abnormal yams unexpectedly developed in their owngardens, or bags of hickory nuts; but somehow they did not244think or speak of her as they did of each other’s children.

Tom had built a comfortable white house, over whoseverandah honeysuckles and roses soon clambered and hung.In time the ground enclosed about it had a curious likenessto the bowery unrestraint of the garden he had played induring his childhood. It was a pleasure to him to lay it outon the old plan and to plant japonicas, flowering almonds,and syringa bushes, as they had grown in the days when hehad played under them as a child, or lounged on the grassnear them as a boy. He and Sheba planted everything themselves—or,rather, Sheba walked about with him or stoodby his side and talked while he worked. In time she knewalmost as well as he did the far-away garden he took as hismodel. She learned to know the place by heart.

“Were you a little boy then, Uncle Tom?” she wouldsay, “when there was a mock-orange and a crape myrtle nextto the big yellow rose-bush?”

There were even times when he found her memory wasbetter than his own, and she could correct him.

“Ah! no, Uncle Tom,” she would say; “the pansies werenot in the little heart-shaped bed; they were all round theone with the pink harp-flower in the middle.”

When she was six years old he sent for some books andbegan seriously to work with a view to refreshing his memoryon subjects almost forgotten.

“I’m preparing myself for a nursery governess, Sheba,”he said. “What we want is a nursery governess, and I don’tknow where to find one. I shouldn’t know how to manageher if I did find her, so I’ve got to post up for the positionmyself.”

The child was so happy with him in all circumstances,245that it was easy to teach her anything. She had learnedto read and write before she discovered that the process shewent through to acquire these accomplishments was not anagreeable pastime specially invented by Tom for her amusement.At eleven years old she had become so interestedin her work that she was quite an excited little student. Bythe time she was twelve Tom began to shake his head at her.

“If you go on like this,” he said, “I sha‘n’t be able tokeep up with you, and what I’ve got to do is to keep ahead.If I can’t, I shall have to send you to the Academy atRalston; and how should we stand that?”

“We couldn’t stand it, Uncle Tom,” she said. “Wehaveto be together. We always have been, haven’t we?” Andshe rubbed her ruffled head against his huge breast.

“Yes, we always have been,” answered Tom; “and itwould go pretty hard with us to make a change, Sheba.”

She was not sent to Ralston. The war broke out and alteredthe aspect of things even at the Cross-roads. The bankin which Tom’s modest savings were deposited was sweptaway by misfortune; the primitive resources of HamlinCounty were depleted, as the resources of all the land were.But for the existence of the white, vine-embowered houseand the garden full of scents and bloom, Tom’s positionat the close of the rebellion was far less fortunate than ithad been at the time the mystery of Blair’s Hollow had occurred.In those old, happy-go-lucky days the three roomsbehind the store and the three meals Mornin cooked for himhad been quite sufficient for free and easy peace. He hadbeen able to ensure himself these primitive comforts withso little expenditure that money had scarcely seemed an object.246He had taken eggs in exchange for sugar, bacon inexchange for tea, and butter in exchange for everything.Now he had no means of resource but the store, and thepeople were poorer than they had been. Farms had goneto temporary ruin through unavoidable neglect during theabsence of their masters. More than one honest fellow hadmarched away and never returned, and their widows wereleft to struggle with the land and their children. The Cross-roadsstore, which had thriven so wonderfully for a yearor two before the breaking out of the war, began to weara less cheerful aspect. As far as he himself was concerned,Tom knew that life was a simple enough thing, but by hisside there was growing up a young goddess. She was notaware that she was a young goddess. There was no one inthe vicinity of the Cross-roads who could have informedher that she presented somewhat of that aspect, and thatshe was youth and happiness and Nature’s self at once.

Tom continually indulged in deep reflection on his chargeafter she was twelve years old. She shot up into the tallsuppleness of a lovely young birch, and she was a sweetlyglowing thing. A baby had been a different matter; thebaby had not been so difficult to manage; but when he foundhimself day by day confronting the sweetness of child-womanhoodin the eyes that were gold-brown pools, and the softeninggrace of the fair young body, he began to be consciousof something like alarm. He was not at all sure what heought to do at this crisis, and whether life confining itsexperiences entirely to Talbot’s Cross-roads was all that wasrequired.

“I don’t know whether it’s right, by thunder,” he said.“I don’t know whether it’s right; and that’s what a manwho’s taken the place of a young mother ought to know.”247

There came a Sunday when one of the occasional “preachings”was to be held at the log-cabin church a few milesdistant, and they were going together, as they always did.

It was a heavenly, warm spring morning, and Sheba, havingmade herself ready, wandered into the garden to waitamong the flowers. The rapturous first scents of the yearwere there, drawn by the sun and blown by vagrant puffsof wind from hyacinths and jonquils, white narcissus andblue violets. Sheba walked among the beds, every few minuteskneeling down upon the grass to bury her face in pinkand yellow and white clusters, inhaling the breath of flowersand the pungent freshness of the sweet brown earth at thesame time. She had lived among leaves and growing thingsuntil she felt herself in some unexplainable way a part ofthe world they belonged to. The world beyond the mountainsshe knew nothing of; but this world, which was thebrown earth springing forth into green blades and leaves andlittle streaked buds, warming into bloom and sun-drenchedfragrance, setting the birds singing and nest-building, givingfruits and grain, and yellow and scarlet leaves, andfolding itself later in snow and winter sleep—this worldshe knew as well as she knew herself. The birds were singingand nest-building this morning, and, as she hung overa bed of purple and white hyacinths, kneeling on the grassand getting as close to them as she could, their perfumemounted to her brain and she began to kiss them.

“I love you,” she said, dwelling on their sweet coolnesswith her lips; “I love and love you!” And suddenly shemade a little swoop and kissed the brown earth itself. “And,oh! I love you, too!” she said. “I love you, too!”

She looked like young spring’s self when she stood upas Tom came towards her. Her smile was so radiant a248thing that he felt his heart quake with no other reasonthan this sight of her happy youth.

“I am thinking,” she said, as she glanced all about her,the smile growing more entrancing, “I am thinking howhappy I am, and how happy the world is, and how I loveyou, and,” with a pretty laugh, “the flowers, and the sun,and the earth—and everything in the world!”

“Yes,” she answered; “and when it isn’t the spring, itis the summer; and when it isn’t the summer, it is the autumn;and when it isn’t the autumn, it is the winter; andwe sit by the fire and know the spring is making its wayback every day. Everything is beautiful—everything ishappy, Uncle Tom.”

“Why do you say that?” Sheba asked. “Why do youlook so—so puzzled, Uncle Tom?”

“Well,” said Tom, holding her out at arm’s length beforehim, “the truth is, I’ve suddenly realised something. I’dlike to know what I’m to do withthis!”

“This?” laughed Sheba. “Am I ‘this’? You lookat me as if I was ‘this’.”

“You are,” Tom answered, ruefully. “Here you suddenlychange to a young woman on a man’s hands. Now,what am I to do with a grown-up young woman? I’m usedto babies, and teething, and swallowing kangaroos out ofNoah’s arks—and I know something of measles and lettingtucks out of frocks; but when it comes to a beautiful youngwoman, there you have me!”249

He shook his head as he ended, and, though his face worethe affectionate, humorous smile which had never failed her,there was a new element in its kindness which, it must beconfessed, bordered on bewilderment.

“A beautiful, grown-up young woman,” he said, glancingreflectively over her soft, swaying slimness, her white frockwith its purple ribbon and golden jonquils, and up to hertender cheek.

“Am I beautiful, Uncle Tom?” she inquired, with alovely anxiousness in her eyes.

“Yes, you are,” admitted Tom; “and it isn’t a drawbackto you, Sheba, but it’s likely to make trouble for me.”

“In novels, and poetry, and sometimes in real life,beautiful young women are fallen in love with, and thentrouble is liable to begin,” explained Tom with amiablegravity.

“There is no one to fall in love with me at the Cross-roads,”said Sheba, sweetly. “I wish there was.”

“Good Lord,” exclaimed Tom, devoutly. “Come alongto church, Sheba, and let’s go in for fasting and prayer.”

He took her to the “preaching” in the log cabin and noticedthe effect of her entry on the congregation as theywent in. There were a number of more or less awkward andraw-boned young male creatures whose lives were spent chieflyin cornfields and potato patches. They were uncomelyhewers of wood and drawers of water, but they turned theirheads to look at her, and their eyes followed her as shewent to her seat. When she had sat down, those who couldcatch glimpses of her involuntarily craned their necks andsat in discomfort until the sermon was over. Tom recognised250this fact, and in secret reflected upon it in all itsbearings.

“Yes,” he found himself saying, mentally; “I’d like toknow how I’m going to do my duty bythis. I don’t believethere’s a derned thing about it in ‘Advice to YoungMothers.’”

The day wore on to its lovely end, and lost itself in oneof the sunsets which seem to flood the sky with a tide ofripples of melted gold, here and there tipped with flame.When this was over, a clear, fair moon hung lighted in theheavens, and, flooding with silver what had been floodedwith gold, changed the flame-tips to pearl.

Sheba strayed in the garden among the flowers. Tom,sitting under the vines of the porch, watched her white figurestraying in and out among the shrubbery. At last he sawher standing on the grass in the full radiance of the moonlight,her hands hanging clasped behind her and her faceturned upward to the sky. As she had wandered about, shehad done a fanciful thing. She had made a wreath of whitenarcissus and laid it on her hair, and she had twisted togethera sort of long garland of the same blossoms and cast it looselyround her waist.

“She never did that before,” Tom said, as he watched her.“Good Lord! what a picture she is, standing there with herface lifted. I wonder what she’s thinking of.”

“Uncle Tom,” she said, when she sauntered back to him,“does the moonlight make you feel sad without being unhappyat all? That is what it does to me.”

“It’s the spring, Sheba,” he said, as he had said it in themorning; “it’s the spring.”

She saw that he was looking at her flower garlands, andshe broke into a shy little laugh.251

“You see what you have done to me, Uncle Tom,” shesaid; “now you have told me I am a beautiful young woman,I shall always be doing things to—to make myself look prettier.”

She yielded as happily and naturally to the enfolding of hisbig arm in these days as she had done when she was a baby.No one but themselves knew what they were to each other.

They had always talked things over together—their affection,their pleasures, their simple anxieties and responsibilities.They had discussed her playthings in the first yearsof their friendship and her lessons when she had been alittle girl. To-night the subject which began to occupythem had some seriousness of aspect. The changes timeand the tide of war had made were bringing Tom face toface with a difficulty his hopeful, easy-going nature hadnever contemplated with any realising sense—the want ofmoney, even the moderate amount the requirements of theirsimple lives made necessary.

“It’s the taxes that a man can’t stand up against,” Tomsaid. “You may cut off all you like, and wear your oldclothes, but there’s a liveliness about taxes that takes thesand out of you. Talk about the green bay-tree flourishingand increasing, all a tax wants is to be let alone a few years.It’ll come to its full growth without any sunning or watering.Mine have had to be left alone for a while, and—well, herewe are—another year, and——”

“If I can’t pay up, it’ll all go—house and store and all,”Tom answered. “Thenwe shall have to go too.”252

“I wish it hadn’t come on us just now,” he said. “There’sno particular season that trouble adds a charm to; but itseems to me that it’s not entitled to the spring.”

When she went upstairs she did not go to bed. The moonlightlured her out into the night again. Outside her windowthere was a little balcony. It was only of painted wood,as the rest of the house was, but a multiflora rose had climbedover it and hung it with a wonderful drapery, and, as shestood upon it, she unconsciously made herself part of apicture almost strange in its dramatic quality.

She was not in the mood to observe sound, or she wouldhave heard the clear stroke of a horse’s hoofs on the road.She did not even hear the opening of the garden gate. Shewas lost in the silver beauty of the night, and a vague dreamingwhich had fallen upon her. On the other side of thepurple of the mountains was the world. It had alwaysbeen there and she had always been here. Presently shefound herself sighing aloud, though she could not havetold why.

As she could not have told why she sighed, so there wasno explanation of the fact that, having done so, she lookeddownward to the garden path, as if something had drawnher eyes there. It is possible that some attraction had sodrawn them, for she found herself looking into a young, upturnedface—the dark, rather beautiful face of a youth who253stood and looked upward as if he had stopped involuntarilyat sight of her.

She drew back with a little start and then bent her Narcissus-crownedhead forward.

He started himself at the sound of her voice. She had indeedlooked scarcely a real creature a few moments ago. Hetook off his hat and answered:

“I am Rupert De Willoughby,” he said. “I beg pardonfor disturbing you. It startled me to see you standing there.I came to see Mr. Thomas De Willoughby.”

It was a singular situation. Perhaps the moonlight hadsomething to do with it; perhaps the spring. They stoodand looked at each other quite simply, as if they did notknow that they were strangers. A young dryad and faunmeeting on a hilltop or in a forest’s depths by moonlightmight have looked at each other with just such clear, unstartledeyes, and with just such pleasure in each other’sbeauty. For, of a truth, each one was thinking the samething, innocently and with a sudden gladness.

As he had come up the garden-path, Rupert had seena vision and had stopped unconsciously that instant. AndSheba, looking down, had seen a vision too—a beautiful faceas young as her own, and with eyes that glowed.

“You don’t know what you looked like standing there,”said Rupert, as simply as the young faun might have spoken.“It was as if you were a spirit. The flowers in your hairlooked like great white stars.”

How the boy looked up at her young loveliness! He hadnever so looked at any woman before. And then a thought254detached itself from the mists of memory and he seemedto remember.

“Yes, I am Sheba,” she answered, rather slowly. “AndI remember you, too. You are the boy.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, almost tremulous with eagerness.“You bring it all back. You were a little child, and I——”

He stood in the moonlight, his head bared, his straw hatin his hand. He felt as if he was in a dream. His face hadlost its gloom and yearning, and his eyes looked like hismother’s.

When he heard a light foot nearing him, he went forward,and they met with strange young smiles and took each other’shands. Nearer than the balcony, she was even a sweeterthing, and the scent of her white flowers floated about her.

As they stood so, smiling, Tom came and joined them.Sheba had called him as she passed his door.

Rupert turned round and spoke, vaguely conscious, ashe did so, that his words sounded somewhat like words utteredin a dream and were not such as he had planned.

The moment ceased to be so fanciful and curiously exaltedwhen his hand was grasped and a big, kind palm laidon his shoulder, though Tom’s face was full of emotion.

“I think I should have known it,” he said. “Welcometo you. Yes,” looking at him with an affection touchedwith something like reverence. “Yes, indeed—DeliaVanuxem!”

“I’ve come to you,” the young fellow said, with fine simplicity,“because I am the only De Willoughby left exceptyourself. I am young and I’m lonely—and my motheralways said you had the kindest heart she ever knew. Iwant you to advise me.”

“Come in to the porch,” said Tom, “and let us sit downand talk it over.”

He put his arm about Sheba and kept his hand on Rupert’sshoulder, and walked so, with one on either side, tothe house. Between their youthful slimness he moved likea protecting giant.

“From Delisleville,” Rupert answered. “I did not thinkof coming here so late to-night, but it seems I must havemissed my road. I was going to ask for lodgings at a placecalled Willet’s Farm. I suppose I took the wrong turning;and when I saw this house before me, I knew it must beyours from what I had heard of it. It seemed as if Fate256had brought me here. And when I came up the path Isaw Sheba. She was standing on the little verandah in themoonlight with the roses all around her; and she lookedso white that I stopped to look up at her.”

His middle-aged heart surprised him by giving one quick,soft beat. He smiled to himself after he had felt it.

“The first moment or so I only stood and looked,” Rupertsaid; “I was startled.”

“But when she leaned forward and looked down on me,”he went on, “I remembered something——”

“So did I,” said Sheba. “I leaned forward like that andlooked down at you from the porch at the tavern—all thoseyears ago, when I was a little child.”

“And I looked up at you—and afterwards I asked aboutyou,” said Rupert. “It all came back when you spoke to-night,and I knew you must be Sheba.”

“You knew my name, but I did not know yours,” saidSheba. “But, after all,” rather as if consoling herself,“Sheba is not my real name. I have another one.”

“What is it?” asked the young fellow, quite eagerly.His eyes had scarcely left her face an instant. She wasstanding by Tom’s chair and her hands were on his shoulders.

“It is Felicia,” she said. “Uncle Tom gave it to me—becausehe wanted me to be happy.” And she curved aslim arm round Tom’s neck and kissed him.

It was the simplest, prettiest thing a man could have seen.Her life had left her nature as pure and translucent as theclearest brook. She had had no one to compare herselfwith or to be made ashamed or timid by. She knew only257her own heart and Tom’s love, and she smiled as radiantlyinto the lighting face before her as she would have smiledat a rose, or at a young deer she had met in the woods.No one had ever looked at her in this way before, but beingherself a thing which had grown like a flower, she felt noshyness, and was only glad. Eve might have smiled at Adamso in their first hours.

Big Tom, sitting between them, saw it all. A man cannotlive a score of years and more, utterly cut off from the lifeof the world, without having many a long hour for thoughtin which he will inevitably find himself turning over theproblems which fill the life he has missed. Tom De Willoughbyhad had many of them. He had had no one totalk to whose mind could have worked with his own. Onwinter nights, when Sheba had been asleep, he had foundhimself gazing into the red embers of his wood fire andpondering on the existence he might have led if fate hadbeen good to him.

“There must be happiness on the earth somewhere,” hewould say. “Somewhere there ought to have been a womanI belonged to, and who belonged to me. It ought all tohave been as much nature as the rain falling and the cornripening in the sun. If we had met when we were youngthings—on the very brink of it all—and smiled into eachother’s eyes and taken each other’s hands, and kissed eachother’s lips, we might have ripened together like the corn.What is it that’s gone wrong?” All the warm normal affectionsof manhood, which might have remained undevelopedand been cast away, had been lavished on the child Sheba.She had represented his domestic circle.

“You mayn’t know it, Sheba,” he had said once to her,“but you’re a pretty numerous young person. You’re a258man’s wife and family, and mother and sisters, and at leasthalf a dozen boys and girls.”

All his thoughts had concentrated themselves upon her—allhis psychological problems had held her as their centre,all his ethical reasonings had applied themselves to her.

“She’s got to be happy,” he said to himself, “and she’sgot to be strong enough to stand up under unhappiness, if—ifI should be taken away from her. When the great thingthat’s—that’s the meaning of it all—and the reason of it—comesinto her life, it ought to come as naturally as summerdoes. If her poor child of a mother—Good Lord! GoodLord!”

And here he sat in the moonlight, and Delia Vanuxem’sson was looking at her with ardent, awakened young eyes.

How she listened as Rupert told his story, and how sweetlyshe was moved by the pathos of it. Once or twice she madean involuntary movement forward, as if she was drawn towardshim, and uttered a lovely low exclamation which wasa little like the broken coo of a dove. Rupert did not knowthat there was pathos in his relation. He made only a simplepicture of things, but as he went on Tom saw all the effectof the hot little town left ruined and apathetic after thestruggle of war, the desolateness of the big house empty butfor its three rooms, its bare floors echoing to the sound ofthe lonely pair of feet, the garden grown into a neglectedjungle, the slatternly negro girl in the kitchen singing wildcamp-meeting hymns as she went about her careless work.

“That was what it was—lonely,” Rupert answered. “It’sbeen a different place since Matt came, but it has alwaysbeen lonely. Uncle Tom,” putting his hand on the big knee259near him, as impulsively as a child, “I love that old Matt—Ilove him!”

“Ah, so do I!” burst forth Sheba. “Don’t you, UncleTom?” And she put her hand on the other knee.

Rupert looked down at the hand. It was so fair and softand full of the expression of sympathy—such an adorablywomanly little hand, that one’s first impulse was to layone’s own upon it. He made a movement and then remembered,and looked up, and their eyes met and rested oneach other gently.

When the subject of the claim was broached, Shebathought it like a fairy tale. She listened almost with batedbreath. As Rupert had not realised that he was patheticin the relation of the first part of his story, so he did notknow that he was picturesque in this. But his material hadstrong colour. The old man on the brink of splendid fortune,the strange, unforeseen national disaster sweeping allbefore it and leaving only poverty and ruin, the untouchedwealth of the mines lying beneath the earth on which battleshad been fought—all the possibilities the future might holdfor one penniless boy—these things were full of suggestionand excitement.

Tom had been listening with a reflective look on his face.He tilted his chair back and ran his hand through his hair.

“At all events, we couldn’tlose money if we didn’t gainany,” he said. “That’s where we’re safe. When a man’sgot to the place where he hasn’t anything to lose, he canafford to take chances. Perhaps it’s worth thinking over.Let’s go to bed, children. It’s midnight.”260

When they said good-night to each other, the two younghands clung together kindly and Sheba looked up withsympathetic eyes.

“To-night I am rich,” he answered. “That is becauseyou and Uncle Tom have made me feel as if I belongedto someone. It is so long since I have seemed to belongto anyone.”

“Your eyes look just as they did when you were a littlechild,” he said. He lifted her hand and pressed his warmyoung lips to it.

He awoke the next morning with a glow in his heartwhich should not be new to youth, but was new to him.He remembered feeling something rather like it years beforewhen he had been a little boy and had wakened on themorning of his birthday and found his mother kissing himand his bed strewn with gifts.

He went downstairs and, strolling on to the porch, sawSheba in the garden. As he went to join her, he foundhimself in the midst of familiar paths and growths.

“Yes,” Sheba answered; “Uncle Tom made it like thisbecause he loved the other one. You and I have played inthe same garden. Good-morning,” laughing.

“Good-morning,” he said. “It is a good-morning. I—somehowI have been thinking that when I woke I feltas I used to do when I was a child and woke on my birthday.”

That morning she showed him her domain. To the imaginativeboy she led with her, she seemed like a strangeyoung princess, to whom all the land belonged. She lovedit so and knew so well all it yielded. She showed him thecool woods where she always found the first spring flowers,the chestnut and walnut trees where she and Tom gatheredtheir winter supply of nuts, the places where the wild grapesgrew thickest, and those where the ground was purple-carpetedwith violets.

They wandered on together until they reached a hollow262in the road, on one side of which a pine wood sloped upa hillside, looking dark and cool.

Then he saw that a little distance above the road a desertedlog cabin stood, and not far from it two or three pine treeshad been cut down so that the sun could shine on a moundover and about which flowers grew. It was like a little gardenin the midst of the silent wildness.

He followed her to the pretty spot, and she knelt downby it and removed a leaf or a dead flower here and there.The little mound was a snowy mass of white blossoms standingthick together, and for a yard or so about the earth wasstarred with the same flowers.

“You see,” she said, “Uncle Tom and I plant new flowersfor every month. Everything is always white. Sometimesit is all lilies of the valley or white hyacinths, and then itis white roses, and in the autumn white chrysanthemums.Uncle Tom thought of it when I was a little child, and wehave done it together ever since. We think she knows.”

She stopped, and, still kneeling, looked at him as if suddenlyremembering something.

“You have not heard,” she said; “she died when I wasborn, and we do not even know her name.”

“Not her name!” Rupert said; but the truth was thathe had heard more of the story than she had.

“My father was so stunned with grief, that Uncle Tomsaid he seemed to think of nothing but that he could notbear to stay. He went away the very night they laid herhere. I suppose,” she said slowly, and looking at the massof white narcissus instead of at him, “I suppose when peoplelove each other, and one dies, the other cannot—cannot——”263

Rupert saw that she was unconsciously trying to explainsomething to herself, and he interposed between her andher thoughts with a hurried effort.

“Yes, yes,” he said; “it must be so. When they love eachother and one is taken, howcan the other bear it?”

Then she lifted her eyes from the flowers to his again,and they looked very large and bright.

“You see,” she said, in an unsteady little voice, “I hadonly been alive a few hours when he went away.”

Suddenly the brightness in her eyes welled up and fell intwo large crystal drops, though a smile quivered on her lips.

“Don’t tell Uncle Tom,” she said; “I never let him knowthat it—it hurts my feelings when I think I had only beenalive such a few hours—and there was nobody to care. Imust have been so little. If—if there had been no UncleTom——”

“Yes,” she answered, her sweet face trembling with emotion;“and, oh! I love him so! I love him so!”

“And I love her, too,” she said; “somehow I know shewould not have forgotten me.”

“No, no, she would not!” Rupert cried; and they knelttogether, hand in hand, looking into each other’s eyes astenderly as children.

“Uncle Tom loved her. He left his home partly becausehe could not stay and see her marry a man who—did notdeserve her.”

“She married my father,” he said, “and he was a drunkenmaniac and broke her heart. I saw it break. When I firstremember her, she was a lovely young girl with eyes likea gazelle’s—and she cried all their beauty away, and grewtired and old and haggard before I was twelve. He is dead,but I hate him!”

“I have been something worse than that!” he answered,and the gloom came back to his face. “I have been afraid.”

“We have nearly all been like that,” he said. “He wasthe maddest of them all, but he was only like many of theothers. We grow tall, we De Willoughbys, we have blackeyes, we drink and we make ourselves insane with morphine.It’s a ghastly thing to think of,” he shuddered. “WhenI am lonely, I think of it night and day.”

“I have often wondered if there was anyone who could,”he answered. “I think perhaps you might.”

When they returned to the Cross-roads there were severalcustomers loitering on the post-office porch, awaiting theirarrival, and endeavouring to wear an air of concealing no265object whatever. The uneventful lives they led year afteryear made men and women alike avid for anything of thenature of news or incident. In some mysterious way the airitself seemed to communicate to them anything of interestwhich might be impending. Big Tom had not felt inclinedto be diffuse on the subject of the arrival of his nephew, buteach customer who brought in a pail of butter or eggs, aroll of jeans or a pair of chickens, seemed to become enlightenedat once as to the position of affairs.

“Ye see,” Tom heard Doty confiding to a friend asthey sat together outside a window of the store; “ye see,it’s this way—the D’Willerbys was born ’ristycrats. I dunnoas ye’d think it to look at Tom. Thar’s a heapto Tom,but he ain’tmy idee of a ’ristycrat. My idee is thet mebbehe let out from D’lisleville kase he warn’t ’ristycratic enoughfur ’em. Thar wus a heap of property in the family, ’pearslike. An’ now the hull lot of ’em’s dead ’cept this yere boythat come last night. Stamps hes seen him in D’lisleville,an’ he says he’s a-stavin’ lookin’ young feller, an’ thet thar’ssomethin’ about a claim on the Guv’ment thet ef Tom an’him don’t foller up, they’re blamed fools. Now Tom, heain’t no blamed fool. Furnot bein’ a blamed fool, I’ll backTom agin any man in Hamlin.”

So, when the two young figures were seen sauntering alongthe road towards the store, there were lookers-on enough toregard them with interest.

“Nowhe’s my idee of a ’ristycrat,” remarked Mr. Doty,with the manner of a connoisseur. “Kinder tall an’ slim,an’ high-sperrity lookin’; Sheby’s a gal, but she’s got it too—thetthar sorter racehorse look. Now, hain’t she?”

“I want you to see the store and the people in it,” Shebawas saying. “It’s my home, you know. Uncle Tom took266me there the day after I was born. I used to play on thefloor behind the counter and near the stove, and all thosemen are my friends.”

Rupert had never before liked anything so much as heliked the simple lovingness of this life of hers. As she knewthe mountains, the flowers, and the trees, she knew andseemed known by the very cows and horses and people shesaw.

“That’s John Hutton’s old gray horse,” she had saidas she caught sight of one rider in the distance. “That isBilly Neil’s yoke of oxen,” at another time. “Good-morning,Mrs. Stebbins,” she called out, with the prettiest possiblecheer, to a woman in an orange cotton skirt as shepassed on the road. “It seems to me sometimes,” she saidto Rupert, “as if I belonged to a family that was scatteredover miles and lived in scores of houses. They all used totell Uncle Tom what would disagree with me when I wascutting my teeth.”

They mounted the steps of the porch, laughing the light,easy laugh of youth, and the loiterers regarded them withundisguised interest and admiration. In her pink cottonfrock, and blooming like a rose in the shade of her frilledpink sunbonnet, Sheba was fair to see. Rupert presentedan aspect which was admirably contrasting. His cool pallorand dense darkness of eyes and hair seemed a delightfulbackground to her young tints of bloom.

“Thet thar white linen suit o’ his’n,” Mr. Doty said,“might hev been put on a-purpose to kinder set off herlooks as well as his’n.”

“Jake,” she said, “this is my cousin Mr. Rupert De Willoughbyfrom Delisleville.”267

“Mighty glad to be made ’quainted, sir,” said Jake.“Tom’s mightily sot up at yer comin’.”

They all crowded about him and went through the sameceremony. It could scarcely be called a ceremony, it wassuch a simple and actually affectionate performance. It wasso plain that his young good looks and friendly grace ofmanner reached their hearts at once, and that they wereglad that he had come.

“Theyare glad you have come,” Sheba said afterwards.“You are from the world over there, you know,” wavingher hand towards the blue of the mountains. “We are allglad when we see anything from the outside.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a little nod of her head. “IfUncle Tom will go—and you.”

They spent almost an hour in the store holding a sort oflevée. Every newcomer bade the young fellow welcome andseemed to accept him as a sort of boon.

“He’s a mighty good-lookin’ young feller,” they all said,and the women added: “Them black eyes o’ his’n an’ theway his hair kinks is mighty purty.”

“Their feelings will be hurt if you don’t stay a little,”said Sheba. “They want to look at you. You don’t mindit, do you?”

“No,” he answered, laughing; “it delights me. No oneever wanted to look at me before. But I should hardly thinkthey would want to look at me when they might look atyou instead.”

“They have looked at me for eighteen years,” she answered.“They looked at me when I had the measles, andsaw me turn purple when I had the whooping-cough.”

As they were going away, they passed a little man who268had just arrived and was hitching to the horse-rail a raw-boned“clay-bank” mare. He looked up as they nearedhim and smiled peacefully.

“Howdy?” he said to Rupert. “Ye hain’t seen me afore,but I seen you when I was to Delisleville. It wuz me astold yer nigger ye’d be a fool if ye didn’t get Tom ter helpyer to look up thet thar claim. Ye showed horse sense bycomin’. Wish ye luck.”

“Uncle Tom,” said Sheba, as they sat at their dinner andMornin walked backwards and forwards from the kitchenstove to the dining-room with chicken fried in cream, hotbiscuits, and baked yams, “we saw Mr. Stamps and hewished us luck.”

“He has a claim himself, hasn’t he?” said Rupert. “Hetold Matt it was for a yoke of oxen.”

“Well,” he said, “if we can do as well by ours as Stampswill do by his, we shall be in luck. That yoke of oxen hasgrown from a small beginning. If it thrives as it goes on,the Government’s in for a big thing.”

“A Government mule kicked it and broke its leg,” saidTom. “Stamps made veal of it, and in two months it was‘Thet heifer o’ mine’—in six months it was a youngsteer——”

“Now it’s a yoke of oxen,” said Rupert; “and they werethe pride of the county.”

“Lord! Lord!” said Tom, “the United States has gotsomething to engineer.”

It was doubtless Stamps who explained the value of theDe Willoughby claim to the Cross-roads. Excited interestin it mounted to fever heat in a few days. The hitching railwas put to such active use that the horses shouldered eachother and occasionally bit and kicked and enlivened the airwith squeals. No one who had an opportunity neglectedto appear at the post-office, that he or she might hear thenews. Judge De Willoughby’s wealth and possessions increasedeach time they were mentioned. The old De Willoughbyplace became a sort of princely domain, the goodlooks of the Judge’s sons and daughters and the splendourof their gifts were spoken of almost with bated breath. Thecoal mines became gold mines, the money invested in themsomething scarcely to be calculated. The Government atWashington, it was even inferred, had not money enoughin its treasury to refund what had been lost and indemnifyfor the injury done.

“And to think o’ Tom settin’ gassin’ yere with us fellers,”they said, admiringly, “jest same es if he warn’t nothin’.A-settin’ in his shirt sleeves an’ tradin’ fer eggs an’butter. Why, ef he puts thet thar claim through, he kinbuy up Hamlin.”

“I’d like ter see the way he’d fix up Sheby,” said Mis’Doty. “He’d hev her dressed in silks an’ satins—an’ diamondearrings soon as look.”

“Ye’ll hev to go ter Washin’ton City sure enough, Tom,”was the remark made oftenest. “When do ye ’low to start?”270

But Tom was not as intoxicated by the prospect as therest of them. His demeanour was thoughtful and unexhilarated.

“Whar do ye ’low to build yer house when ye come intoyer money, Tom?” he was asked, gravely. “Shall ye heva cupoly? Whar’ll ye buy yer land?”

The instinct of Hamlin County tended towards expressingany sense of opulence by increasing the size of the house itlived in, or by building a new one, and invariably by purchasingland. Nobody had ever become rich in the neighbourhood,but no imagination would have found it possibleto extend its efforts beyond a certain distance from the Cross-roads.The point of view was wholly primitive and patriarchal.

Big Tom was conscious that he had become primitive andpatriarchal also, though the truth was that he had alwaysbeen primitive.

As he sat on the embowered porch of his house in theevening and thought things over, while the two young voicesmurmured near him, his reflections were not greatly joyful.The years he had spent closed in by the mountains and surroundedby his simple neighbours had been full of peace.Since Sheba had belonged to him they had even held morethan peace. The end had been that the lonely unhappinessof his youth had seemed a thing so far away that it was ratherlike a dream. Only Delia Vanuxem was not quite like adream. Her pitying girlish face and the liquid darknessof her uplifted eyes always came back to him clearly whenhe called them up in thought. He called them up oftenduring these days in which he was pondering as to whatit was best to decide to do.

“It’s the boy who brings her back so,” he told himself.271“Good Lord, how near she seems! The grass has been growingover her for many a year, and I’m an old fellow, butshe looks just as she did then.”

The world beyond the mountains did not allure him. Itwas easier to sit and see the sun rise and set within thepurple boundary than to face life where it was less simple,and perhaps less kindly. It was from a much less advancedand concentrated civilisation he had fled in his youth, andthe years which had passed had not made him more fittedto combat with what was more complex.

“Trading for butter and eggs over the counter of a countrystore, and discussing Doty’s corn crop and Hayworth’spigs hasn’t done anything particular towards fitting me toshine in society,” he said. “It suitsme well enough, butit’s not what’s wanted at a ball or a cabinet minister’s reception.”And he shook his head. “I’d rather stay whereI am—a darned sight.”

But the murmuring voices went on near him, and littlebursts of laughter rang out, or two figures wandered aboutthe garden, and his thoughts always came back to one point—apoint where the sun seemed to shine on things andsurround them with a dazzling radiance.

“Yes, it’s all very well forme,” he concluded more thanonce. “It’s well enough forme to sit down and spend therest of my life looking at the mountains and watching summerchange into winter; but they are only beginning it all—justbeginning.”

So one night he left his chair and went out and walkedbetween them in the moonlight, a hand resting on a shoulderof each.

“Yes. Do you know we may have a pretty hard time?We’ve no money. We should have to live scant enough, and,unless we had luck, we might come back here worse off thanwe left.”

“But we should have tried, and we should have beenon the other side of the mountains,” said Sheba.

“So we should,” said Tom, reflectively. “And there’s agood deal in seeing the other side of the mountains whenpeople are young.”

The line showed itself between his black brows again,though it was not a frown. He put his hand in his pocketand held it out, open, with a solitary twenty-dollar bill lyingin it.

“That’s all I’ve got,” he said, “and that’s borrowed. Ifthe claim is worth nothing, I must earn enough to pay itback. All right. We’ll all three go,” said Tom.

The next day he began to develop the plans he had beenallowing to form vaguely as a background to his thoughts.They were not easy to carry out in the existing conditionof general poverty. But at Lucasville, some forty miles distant,he was able to raise a mortgage on his land.

“If the worst comes to the worst,” he said to Sheba,“after we have seen the other side of the mountains, do youthink you could stand it to come back and live with me inthe rooms behind the store?”

Sheba sat down upon his knee and put her arms roundhis neck, as she had done when she was ten years old.273

“I could live with you anywhere,” she said. “The onlything I couldn’t stand would be to have to live away fromyou.”

Tom laughed and kissed her. He laughed that he mightsmother a sigh. Rupert was standing near and looking ather with the eyes that were so like Delia Vanuxem’s.

For an imaginative or an untravelled person to approachthe city of Washington at sunrise on a radiant morning, isa thing far from unlikely to be remembered, since a whiteand majestic dome, rising about a white structure set highand supported by stately colonnades, the whole gleaming fairagainst a background of blue sky, forms a picture which doesnot easily melt away.

Those who reared this great temple of white stone andset it on a hilltop to rule and watch over the land, buildedbetter than they knew. To the simple and ardent idealistits white stateliness must always suggest something symbolic,and, after all, it is the ardent and simple idealist whosedreams and symbols paint to prosaic human minds the beautifulimpossibilities whose unattainable loveliness so alluresas to force even the unexalted world into the endeavour tocreate such reproductions of their forms as crude living willallow.

Tom leaned against the side of the car window andwatched the great dome with an air of curious reflection.Sheba and Rupert leaned forward and gazed at it with dreamingeyes.

“It looks as the capitol of a great republic ought to look,”Rupert said. “Spotless and majestic, and as if it dominatedall it looks down upon with pure laws and dignity andjustice.”

In the various crises of political excitement in Hamlin275County he had taken the part of an unbiassed but humorousobserver, and in that character had gained much experienceof a primitive kind. What he had been led chiefly toremark in connection with the “great republic” was thatthe majesty and spotlessness of its intentions were not invariablyrealised by mere human units.

“Well,” he said, as he took down his valise from therack, “we’re coming in here pretty well fixed for leaving theplace millionaires. If we had only fifteen cents in ourpockets, it would be a dead sure thing, according to all thebiographersI ever read. The only thing against us is thatwe have a little more—but it’s not enough to spoil our luck,that I’ll swear.”

He was not without reason in the statement. Few voyagerson the ocean of chance could have dared the journeywith less than they had in their possession.

“What we’ve got to do,” he had said to Rupert, “is totake care of Sheba. We two can rough it.”

They walked through the awakening city, finding itstrange and bare with its broad avenues and streets ill-paved,bearing traces everywhere of the tragedy of warthrough which it had passed. The public buildings alonehad dignity; for the rest, it wore a singularly provincial anduncompleted aspect; its plan was simple and splendid inits vistas and noble spaces, but the houses were irregularand without beauty of form; negro shanties huddled againstsome of the most respectable, and there were few whosewindows or doors did not announce that board and lodgingmight be obtained within. There was no look of well-beingor wealth anywhere; the few equipages in the streets hadseen hard service; the people who walked were either plainlydressed or shabby genteel; about the doors of the principal276hotels there were groups of men who wore, most of them,dispirited or anxious faces. Ten years later the whole aspectof the place was changing, but at this time it was passingthrough a period of natural fatigue and poverty, and wasnot an inspiring spectacle to penniless new-comers.

Beyond the more frequented quarters of the town, theyfound broad, unkempt, and as yet unlevelled avenues andstreets, where modest houses straggled, perched on highbanks with an air of having found themselves there quiteby accident. The banks were usually grass-covered, andthe white picket fences enclosed bits of ground where scantfruit-trees and disorderly bushes grew; almost every housepossessed a porch, and almost every porch was scrambled overby an untidy honeysuckle or climbing rose which did its bestto clothe with some grace the dilapidated woodwork and thepeeled and blistered paint.

Before one of these houses Tom stopped to look at a lopsidedsign in the little garden, which announced that roomswere to be rented within.

“Perhaps we can find something here,” he said, “thatmay suit the first ventures of millionaires. It’s the sort ofthing that will appeal to the newspaper man who writesthe thing up; ‘First home of the De Willoughbys whenthey arrived in Washington to look up their claim.’ It’llmake a good woodcut to contrast with ‘The great DeWilloughby mansion in Fifth Avenue. Cost five hundredthousand!’”

They mounted the wooden steps built into the bankand knocked at the door. Rupert and Sheba exchangedglances with a little thrill. They were young enough to277feel a sort of excitement even in taking this first modeststep.

A lady with a gentle, sallow face and a faded black cottongown, opened the door. Her hair hung in depressed butgenteel ringlets on each side of her countenance; at theback it formed a scant coil upheld by a comb. Tom thoughthe observed a gleam of hope in her eye when she saw them.She spoke with the accent of Virginia.

She led them into a neat but rather painful little parlour.The walls were decorated with photographs of deceased relativesin oval frames, and encased in glass there was a floralwreath made of hair of different shades and one of white,waxen-looking flowers, with a vaguely mortuary suggestionin their arrangement. There was a basket of wax fruit undera shade on the centre table, a silver ice-water pitcher on asalver, and two photograph albums whose binding had becomeloosened by much handling. There was also a bookwith a red and gold cover, bearing in ornate letters the title“Life of General Robert Lee.”

“The rooms are not lawge,” the lady said, “but they arefurnished with the things I brought from my fawther’s housein Virginia. My fawther was Judge Burford, of the Burfordfamily of England. There’s a Lord Burford in England,we always heard. It is a very old family.”

She looked as if she found a vague comfort in the statement,and Tom did not begrudge it to her. She looked veryworn and anxious, and he felt it almost possible that duringthe last few months she might not always have had quiteenough to eat.

“I never thawt in the days when I was Judge Burford’s278dawtah of Burfordsville,” she explained, “that I shouldcome to Washington to take boarders. There was a timewhen it was thawt in Virginia that Judge Burford mightreach the White House if he would allow himself to be nominated.It’s a great change of circumstances. Did you wantboard with the rooms?”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be convenient for me to boardanyone,” she said; “I’ve not been accustomed to providingfor boarders, and I’m not conveniently situated. If—if youpreferred to economize——”

“We do,” said Tom. “We have come to look up a claim,and people on that business are pretty safe to have to economize,I’ve been told!”

“Ah, a claim!” she ejaculated, with combined interestand reverence. “Indeed, you are quite right about its beingnecessary to economize. Might I enqu’ah if it is a largeone?”

“I believe it is,” Tom answered; “and it’s not likelyto be put through in a month, and we have not moneyenough to keep us in luxury for much more. Probably weshall be able to make it last longer if we take rooms and buyour own food.”

“I’m sure you would, suh,” she answered, with a littleeager flush on her cheek. “When people provide for themselves,they can sometimes do without—things.” She addedthe last word hurriedly and gave a little cough which soundednervous.

It was finally agreed that they should take three littlerooms she showed them, in one of which there was a tinystove, upon which they could prepare such simple food as279they could provide themselves with. The arrangement wasnot a luxurious one, but it proved to be peculiarly suitableto the owners of the great De Willoughby claim.

As they had not broken fast, Tom went out to explorethe neighbourhood in search of food. He thought he rememberedhaving seen in a side street a little store. Whenhe returned, after some wanderings, a wood fire was cracklingin the stove and Sheba had taken off her hat and puton a white apron.

“I borrowed it from Miss Burford,” she said. “I wentdown to see her. She let us have the wood, too. Rupertmade the fire.”

She took the paper bags from Tom’s hands and stood ontiptoe to kiss him, smiling sweetly at his rather troubledface.

“All my life you have been doing things for me. Nowit is my turn,” she said. “I have watched Mornin ever sinceI was born. I am going to be your servant.”

In an hour from the time they had taken possessionof their quarters, they were sitting at a little table beforean open window, making a breakfast of coffee and eggs.Sheba was presiding, and both men were looking at herflushed cheeks adoringly.

“Well,” said Tom, “for the first effort of a millionairess,I should say it was.”

The year before this Judge Rutherford had been sentto Congress by the Republican Party of Hamlin County.His election had been a wildly exciting and triumphant one.Such fiery eloquence as his supporters displayed had rarely,if ever, been poured forth before. It was proved by eachorator that the return of the Democratic candidate wouldplunge the whole country into the renewal of bloodshed andwar. This catastrophe having been avoided by the Judge’selection, the nation—as represented by Hamlin County—hadsettled down with prospects of peace, prosperity, andthe righting of all old grievances. The Judge bought a newand shining valise, a new and shining suit of broadcloth,and a silk hat equally shining and new, and went triumphantlyto Washington, the sole drawback to his exultationbeing that he was obliged to leave Jenny behind him withthe piano, the parlour furniture, and the children.

“But he’ll hev ye thar in the White House, ef ye givehim time,” said an ardent constituent who called to congratulate.

There seemed no end to a political career begun undersuch auspices but the executive mansion itself. The confidenceof the rural communities in their representatives wasgreat and respectful. It was believed that upon their arrivalat the capital, business in both Houses was temporarily postponeduntil it had been supported by their expression of281opinion and approval. It was believed also that the luxuryand splendour of a Congressman’s life was such as ancientRome itself might have paled before and envied.

“A man in Washin’ton city with a Congristman’s wageshas got to be a purty level-headed feller not to get intohigh-falutin’ ways of livin’ an’ throwin’ money about.He’s got to keep in his mind that this yere’s a republican’ not a ’ristycratic, despotic monarchy.”

This was a sentiment often expressed, and Tom De Willoughbyhimself had had vaguely respectful views of the circumstancesand possible surroundings of a representative ofhis country.

But when he made his first visit to Judge Rutherford,he did not find him installed in a palatial hotel and surroundedby pampered menials. He was sitting in a backroom in a boarding-house—a room which contained a foldingbedstead and a stove. He sat in a chair which was tiltedon its hind legs, and his feet rested on the stove’s ornamentaliron top. He had just finished reading a newspaper whichlay on the floor beside him, and his hands were thrust intohis pockets. He looked somewhat depressed in spirits.

When Tom was ushered into the room, the Judge lookedround at him, uttered a shout of joy, and sprang to his feet.

“Tom,” he cried out, falling upon him and shaking hishand rather as if he would not object to shaking it off andretaining it as an agreeable object forever. “Tom! OldTom! Jupiter, Tom! I don’t know how you got here orwhere you came from, but—Jupiter! I’m glad to see you.”

He went on shaking his hand as he dragged him acrossthe room and pushed him into a dingy armchair by thewindow; and when he had got him there, he stood over himgrasping his shoulder, shaking his hand still. Tom saw282that his chin was actually twitching in a curious way whichmade his goatee move unsteadily.

“The legislation of your country hasn’t made you forgethome folks, has it?” said Tom.

“Forget ’em!” exclaimed the Judge, throwing himselfinto a seat opposite and leaning forward excitedly with hishands on his knees. “I never remembered anything in mylife as I remember them. They’re never out of my mind,night or day. I’ve got into a way of dreaming I’m backto Barnesville, talking to the boys at the post-office, orlistening to Jenny playing ‘Home, Sweet Home’ or ‘TheMaiden’s Prayer.’ I was a bit down yesterday and couldn’teat, and in the night there I was in the little dining-room,putting away fried chicken and hot biscuits as fast as thenigger girl could bring the dishes on the table. GoodLord! how good they were! There’s nothing like themin Washington city,” he added, and he heaved a big sigh.

The Judge heaved another sigh, thrusting his handsdeeper into his pockets and looking out of the window.

“You see,” he said, “I’ve lived different. When a manhas been born and brought up among the mountains andlived a country life among folks that are all neighbours andhave neighbourly ways, city life strikes him hard. Politicslook different here; theyare different. They’re not of theneighbourly kind. Politicians ain’t joking each other andhaving a good time. They don’t know anything about theother man, and they don’t care a damn. What’s HamlinCounty to them? Why, they don’t know anythingabout283Hamlin County, and, as far as I’ve got, they don’t wantto. They’ve got their own precincts to attend to, and they’regoing to do it. When a new man comes in, if he ain’t apretty big fellow that knows how to engineer things andsay things to make them listen to him, he’s only anothergreenhorn. Now, I’m not a big fellow, Tom; I’ve foundthat out! and the first two months after I came, blamedif I wasn’t so homesick and discouraged that if it hadn’tbeen for seeming to go back on the boys, durned if I don’tbelieve I should have gone home.”

“Perhaps you’re a bigger man than you know,” he said.“Perhaps you’ll find that out in time, and perhaps otherpeople will.”

“I’ve not got education enough,” he said. “And I’mnot an orator. All there is tome is that I’m not goingback on the boys and Hamlin. I came here to do the squarething by them and the United States, and blamed if I ain’tgoing to do it as well as I know how.”

“Now, look here,” said Big Tom, “that’s pretty goodpolitics to start with. If every man that came here cameto stand by his party—and the United States—and do thesquare thing by them, the republic would be pretty safe,if they couldn’t do another durned thing.”

“Think so?” he exclaimed, in his great, cheerful voice.“I’m a greenhorn myself, but, good Lord! Iknow it. Makinglaws for a few million people is a pretty big scheme, and284it’s the fellows who intend to do the square thing who aregoing to put it through. This isn’t ancient Greece, orSparta, but it’s my impression that the men who plannedand wrote the Constitution, and did the thinking and oratingin those days, had a sort of idea of building up a thingjust as ornamental and good to write history about as eitherone; and, what’s more, they counted on just such fellowsas you to go on carrying the stones and laying them plumb,long after they were gone.”

“Jupiter, Tom!” the Judge said, with something actuallylike elation in his voice, “it’s good to hear you. It bringsold Hamlin back and gives a man sand. You’re an orator,yourself.”

“Am I?” said Tom. “No one ever called my attentionto it before. If it’s true, perhaps it’ll come in useful.”

“Now, just think of me sitting here gassing,” exclaimedthe Judge, “and never asking what you are here for. What’syour errand, Tom?”

“Perhaps I’m here to defraud the Government,” Tomanswered, sitting down again; “or perhaps I’ve got a fairclaim against it. That’s what I’ve come to Washington tofind out—with the other claimant.”

“A claim!” cried the Judge. “And you’ve left theCross-roads—and Sheba?”

“Sheba and the other claimant are in some little roomswe’ve taken out near Dupont Circle. The other claimant isthe only De Willoughby left beside myself, and he is ayoungster of twenty-three. He’s my brother De Courcy’sson.”

The Judge glowed with interest. He heard the wholestory, and his excitement grew as he listened. The elementsof the picturesque in the situation appealed to him greatly.285The curiously composite mind of the American containsa strong element of the romantic. In its most mercantileforms it is attracted by the dramatic; when it hails fromthe wilds, it is drawn by it as a child is drawn by colourand light.

“It’s a big thing,” the Judge ejaculated at intervals.“When I see you sitting there, Tom, just as you used tosit in your chair on the store-porch, it seems as if it couldhardly be you that’s talking. Why, man, it’ll mean amillion!”

“If I get money enough to set the mines at work,” saidTom, “it may mean more millions than one.”

The dingy square room, with its worn carpet, its turned-upbedstead, shabby chairs, and iron stove, temporarily assumeda new aspect. That its walls should contain this fairytale of possible wealth and power and magnificence madeit seem quite soberly respectable, and that Big Tom, sittingin the second-hand looking armchair, which creaked beneathhis weight, should, in matter-of-fact tones, be relating sucha story, made Judge Rutherford regard him with a kind ofreverent trouble.

“Sheba, now,” he said, “Sheba may be one of the biggestheiresses in the States. Lord! what luck it was forher that fellow left her behind!”

“It was luck for me,” said Tom. And a faint, contemplativegrin showed itself on his countenance. He wasthinking, as he often did, of the afternoon when he returnedfrom Blair’s Hollow and opened the door of the room behindthe store to find the wooden cradle stranded like a smallark in the corner.

Naturally Judge Rutherford gravitated towards thelittle house near Dupont Circle. The first night he mountedthe stairs and found himself in the small room confrontingthe primitive supper he had been invited to share with bigTom and his family, his honest countenance assumed acheerfulness long a stranger to it.

The room looked such a simple, homely place, with itsVirginia made carpet, its neat, scant furnishing, and itstable set with the plain little meal. The Judge’s homesickheart expanded within him.

He shook hands with Tom with fervour. Rupert hegreeted with friendly affection. Sheba—on her enteringthe room with a plate of hot biscuits which she had beenbaking in Miss Burford’s stove—he almost kissed.

“Now this is something like,” he said. “I didn’t knowthere was anything so like Barnesville in all Washingtoncity. And there wasn’t till you people brought it. I don’tknow what it is, but, by thunder, it does a man’s heart good.”

He sat down with the unconventional air of ease he worein Barnesville when he established himself in one of Jenny’sparlour chairs for the evening.

“Lord, Lord!” he said; “you’re home folks, and you’vegot home ways, that’s what it is. A month in one of thesefashionable hotels would just about kill me. Having toorder things written out on a card and eat ’em with a hundredfolks looking on—there’s no comfort in it. Give me287a place where you can all sit up together round the tableand smell the good hot coffee and biscuit cooking and theham and chicken being fried in the kitchen.”

Sheba had cooked the supper in Miss Burford’s kitchen.Her hot biscuits and coffee were made after Mornin’s mostrespected recipes, and her housewifely air was tenderlyanxious.

“If it is not very good, Judge Rutherford,” she said,standing shyly at the head of the table before she tookher place, “it is because I am only learning.”

“You have learned, Sheba,” said the Judge, looking atthe plate of light golden brown and cream white biscuitwith the sensitive eye of a connoisseur. “That plate ofbiscuit is Barnesville and Sophrony all over.”

“Oh, Uncle Tom,” she said; “do you think it is? Ishould so like to remind him of Barnesville.”

“Good Lord!” said the Judge. “Fact is, you’ve mademe feel already as if Tom Scott might break out yellingin the back yard any minute.”

After the supper was over and the table clear the partyof four sat down to talk business and make plans. Theentire inexperience of the claimants was an obstacle in theirpath, but Judge Rutherford, though not greatly wiser thanthemselves, had means of gaining information which wouldbe of value. As he looked over the papers and learned thedetails of the story, the good fellow’s interest mounted toexcitement. He rubbed his head and grew flushed andbright of eye.

“By Jupiter, Tom!” he exclaimed, “I believe I can beof some use to you—I swear I believe I can. I haven’t hadmuch experience, but I’ve seen something of this claim business,288and if I set my wits to work I can find out from otherfellows who know more. I’ll—” After a moment’s reflection.“I’ll have a talk with Farquhar to-morrow. That’swhat I’ll do. Great Scott!” in a beaming outburst, “ifI could push it through for you, how pleased Jenny wouldbe.”

When he went away Tom accompanied him downstairs.Sheba and Rupert followed them, and all three found themselveslured out into the moonlit night to saunter with hima few yards down the light avenue, talking still about theirfairy story. The Judge himself was as fascinated by it asif he had been a child.

“Why, it’s such a good story to tell,” he expatiated; “andthere must be a great deal in that. I never heard a betterstory for gaining sympathy—that fine old Southern aristocratstanding by the Union in a red-hot secessionist town—actuallypersecuted on account of it. Hewas persecuted,wasn’t he?” he enquired of Rupert.

“Well,” Rupert answered, “everybody was furious athim, of course—all his friends. People who had known himall his life passed him in the street without speaking. He’dbeen very popular, and he felt it terribly. He never wasthe same man after it began. He was old, and his spiritgave way.”

“Just so!” exclaimed the Judge, stopping upon the pavement,elated even to oratory by the picture presented.“Fine old Southern aristocrat—on the brink of magnificentfortune—property turned into money that he may realise it—warbreaks out, ruins him—Spartan patriotism—onepatriot in a town of rebels hated and condemned by everybody—butfaithful to his country. Friends—old friends—refuseto recognise him. Fortune gone—friends lost—heart289broken.” He snatched Tom’s big hand and shook it enthusiastically.“Tom!” he said; “I’d like to make a speech tothe House about it myself. I believe they would listen tome. How set up Jenny would be—how set up she’d be.”

He left them all in a glow of enthusiasm; they could seehim gesticulating a little to himself as he walked down theavenue in the moonlight.

“That’s just like him,” said Tom; “he’d rather pleaseJenny than set the House of Representatives on fire. Andhe’d undertake the whole thing—work to give a man afortune for mere neighbourliness. We were a neighbourlylot in Hamlin, after all.”

The Judge went home to his boarding-house and sat latein his shabby armchair, his legs stretched out, his handsclasped on the top of his rough head. He was thinking thething out, and as he thought it out his excitement grew.Sometimes he unclasped his hands and rubbed his hair withrestless sigh; more than once he unconsciously sprang tohis feet, walked across the floor two or three times, andthen sat down again. He was not a sharp schemer, he hadnot even reached the stage of sophistication which wouldhave suggested to him that sharp scheming might be anecessary adjunct in the engineering of such matters asGovernment claims. From any power or tendency to diplomatisehe was as free as the illustrative bull in a china shop.His bucolic trust in the simple justice and honest disinterestednessof the political representatives of his native land(it being granted they were of the Republican party) mighthave appeared a touching thing to a more astute and experiencedperson who had realised it to its limits. Whenhe rubbed his hair excitedly or sprang up to walk about,these manifestations were indications, not of doubt or distrust,290but of elated motion. It was the emotional aspectof the situation which delighted and disturbed him, the dramaticpicturesqueness of it. Here was Tom—good old Tom—allHamlin knew Tom and his virtues and witticisms—Lord!there wasn’t a man in the county who didn’t lovehim—yes,love him. And here was Sheba that Tom hadbeen a father to. And what a handsome little creatureshe’d grown into—and, but for Tom, the Lord knew whatwould have become of her. And there was that story ofthe De Willoughbys of Delisleville—handsome, aristocraticlot, among the biggest bugs in the State—the fine oldJudge with his thousands of acres lying uncultivated, andhe paying his taxes on them through sheer patriarchalpleasure in being a big landowner. For years the Governmenthad benefited by his tax-paying, while he hadgained nothing. And then there was the accidental discoveryof the splendid wealth hidden in the bowels of the earth—andthe old aristocrat’s energy and enterprise. Why, ifthe war had not brought ruin to him and he had carriedout his plans, the whole State would have been the richerfor his mines. Capital would have been drawn in, labourwould have been in demand—things would have developed—outsiderswould have bought land—new discoveries wouldhave been made—the wealth of the country’s resourceswould have opened up—the Government itself would havebenefited by the thing. And then the war had ruined all.And yet the old Judge, overwhelmed with disaster as hewas, had stood by the Government and had been scornedand deserted, and had died broken-hearted at the end,and here were his sole descendants—good old Tom and hislittle beauty of a protégée—(no, Sheba wasn’t a descendant,but somehow she counted), and this fine young De Willoughby—all291of them penniless. Why, the justice of thething stared a man in the face; a claim like thatmust gothrough.

At this juncture of his thought Judge Rutherford wasstanding upright in the middle of his room. His hair wasin high disorder and his countenance flushed. He struckhis right fist hard against the palm of his left hand.

“Why, the whole thing’s as straight as a string,” he said.“It’s got to go through. I’ll go and see Farquhar to-morrow.”

Farquhar was a cleverer man than the representative fromHamlin County. He had been returned several times by hisconstituents, and his life had been spent in localities moreallied to effete civilization than was Barnesville. He knewhis Washington and had an astute interest in the methodsand characteristics of new members of Congress, particularlyperhaps such as the rural districts loomed up behind as abackground. Judge Rutherford he had observed at the outsetof his brief career, in the days when he had first appearedin the House of Representatives in his new broadcloth withits new creases, and with the uneasy but conscientious expressionin his eye.

“There’s a good fellow, I should say,” he had remarked tothe member at the desk next to him. “Doesn’t know whatto do, exactly—isn’t quite sure what he has come for—butmeans to accomplish it, whatsoever it may turn out to be,to the best of his ability. He’d be glad to make friends.He’s used to neighbours and unceremonious intimacies.”

He made friends with him himself and found the acquaintanceof interest at times. The faithfully reproduced292atmosphere of Barnesville had almost a literary colour.Occasionally, though not frequently, he encouraged delineationof Jenny and Tom Scott and Thacker and “theboys.” He had even inhaled at a distance vague whiffs ofSophronia’s waffles.

On the morning after the evening spent at Dupont CircleJudge Rutherford frankly buttonholed him in the lobby.

“Farquhar,” he said, “I’m chock full of a story. It keptme awake half the night. I want to ask your advice aboutit. It’s about a claim.”

“You shouldn’t have let it keep you awake,” repliedFarquhar. “Claims are not novel enough. It’s my opinionthat Washington is more than half populated just now withpeople who have come to present claims.”

Judge Rutherford’s countenance fell a little as the countenanceof an enthusiast readily falls beneath the breath ofnon-enthusiasm.

“Well,” he said, “I guess there are plenty of them—butthere are not many like this. You never heard sucha story. It would be worth listening to, even if you werein the humour to walk ten miles to kick a claim.”

“I have been in them, Guv’nor,” he said. “The atmosphereis heavy with carpet-baggers who all have a reasonfor being paid for something by the Government. There’sone of them now—that little Hoosier hanging about thedoorway. He’s from North Carolina, and wants pay fora herd of cattle.”

In the hall outside the lobby a little man stood gazingwith pale small eyes intent upon the enchanted space within.He wore a suit of blue jeans evidently made in the domesticcircle. He scanned each member of Congress who went in293or out, and his expression was a combination of furtive eagernessand tentative appeal.

“I believe I’ve seen him before,” remarked Judge Rutherford,“but I don’t know him.”

“He’s been hanging about the place for weeks,” saidFarquhar. “He’s always in the strangers’ gallery whenclaims come up for discussion. He looks as if he’d be likelyto get what he has come for, Hoosier as he is.”

“I want to talk to you about the De Willoughbys,” saidRutherford. “I can’t rest until I’ve told someone aboutit. I want you to advise me what to do.”

Farquhar allowed himself to be led away into a moresecluded spot. He was not, it must be confessed, greatlyinterested, but he was well disposed towards the memberfrom Hamlin and would listen. They sat down together inone of the rooms where such talk might be carried on, andthe Judge forthwith plunged into his story.

It was, as his own instincts had told him, a good story.He was at once simple and ornate in the telling—simplein his broad directness, and ornate in his dramatic and emotionaltouches. He began with the picture of the De Willoughbysof Delisleville—the autocratic and aristocraticJudge, the two picturesque sons, and the big, unpicturesqueone who disappeared from his native town to reappear inthe mountains of North Carolina and live his primitive lifethere as the object of general adulation. He unconsciouslymade Big Tom the most picturesque figure of the lot. Longbefore he had finished sketching him, Farquhar—who hadbeen looking out of the window—turned his face towardshim. He began to feel himself repaid for his amiable ifsomewhat casual attention. He did not look out of thewindow again. The history of big Tom De Willoughby294alone was worth hearing. Farquhar did not find it necessaryto call Judge Rutherford’s attention to the fact that Shebaand the mystery of Blair’s Hollow were not to be regardedas evidence. He realised that they adorned the situationand seemed to prove things whether it was strictly true thatthey did so or not. The discovery of the coal, the fortunesand disasters of Judge de Willoughby, the obstinate loyaltyabhorred and condemned of his neighbours, his lonelinessand poverty and death—his wasted estates, the big, bare,empty house in which his sole known heir lived alone, werematerial to hold any man’s attention, and, enlarged uponby the member from Hamlin, were effective indeed.

“Now,” said the Judge, wiping his forehead when hehad finished, “what do you think of that? Don’t you thinkthese people have a pretty strong claim?”

“That story sounds as if they had,” answered Farquhar;“but the Government isn’t eager to settle claims—and younever know what will be unearthed. If Judge De Willoughbyhad not been such a blatantly open old opposer of hisneighbour’s political opinions these people wouldn’t havea shadow of a chance.”

“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Rutherford, delightedly; “hewas persecuted—persecuted.”

“It was a good thing for his relatives,” said Farquhar.“Did you say the people had come to Washington?”

“All three of them,” answered the Judge, and this timehis tone was exultant; “Tom, and Sheba, and Rupert.They’ve rented some little rooms out near Dupont Circle.”

“I should like to be taken to see them,” said Farquhar,reflectively. “I should like to have a look at Big Tom DeWilloughby.”

“Would you?” cried the Judge. “Why, nothing would295suit me better—or them either, for that matter. I’ll takeyou any day you say—any day.”

“It ain’t the easiest thing in the world to put a claimthrough,” said Farquhar. “It means plenty of hard knocksand hard work and anxiety. Do you know that?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” answered the Judge.“But I’m going to get this one through if there’s a wayof doing it.”

“You’ll be misunderstood and called names and slandered,”said Farquhar, regarding his rugged, ingenuous facewith some curiosity. “There may be people—even in HamlinCounty—who won’t believe you are not up to some bigdeal. What are you doing it for?”

“Why, for Tom and Sheba and Rupert,” said the Judge,in an outburst of neighbourliness. “That’s folks enoughto do it for, ain’t it? There’s three of ’em—and I’d do itfor ary one—as we say in Barnesville,” in discreet correctionof the colloquialism.

Farquhar laughed a little, and put a hand on his shoulderas they moved away together. “I believe you would,” hesaid; “perhaps that sort of thing is commoner in Barnesvillethan in Washington. I believe you would. Take meto see the claimants to-morrow.”

When Judge Rutherford piloted him up the broad, unpavedavenue towards the small house near Dupont Circle,the first objects which caught Farquhar’s gaze were twoyoung people standing among the unkempt rose and syringabushes in the little front garden. The slim grace and bloomof their youth would have caught any eye. They werelaughing happily, and the girl held a branch of rosy blossomsin her hand.

“One of them is,” answered Rutherford. “But Sheba—Shebacounts somehow.”

Sheba looked at the stranger with the soft gaze of deer-likeeyes when he was presented to her. There was no shynessin her woodland smile.

“Judge Rutherford,” she said, “Uncle Matt has come—Rupert’sMatt, you know. We can’t help laughing aboutit, but we can’t help being happy.”

The boyish Southern face at her side laughed and glowed.Matt represented to Rupert the Lares and Penates his emotionalnature required and had been denied.

“If he were not such a practical creature,” he said, “Imight not know what to do with him. But he worked hisway here by engaging himself for the journey as a sort ofnurse to an invalid young man who wanted to join his familyin Washington and was too weak to travel alone.”

The further from romance the world drifts, the fairer297it becomes in its fagged eyes. So few stories unfold themselvessweetly from beginning to end that a first chapteris always more or less alluring, and as he marked the youthand beauty of those two and saw how their young eyes andsmiles met in question and response at every thought, toFarquhar, who still retained the fragments of an imaginationnot wholly blighted by the House of Representatives,it seemed rather as if he had wandered into a world whereyoung Cupid and Psyche still moved and breathed in humanguise. As central figures of a government claim, the pairwere exquisitely incongruous. Their youth was so radiantand untried, their bright good looks so bloomed, that theman looking at them felt—with a realising sense of humouras well as fanciful sentiment—as if a spring wind waftedthrough a wood close grown with wild daffodils had sweptinto a heated manufactory where machinery whirred andill-clad workers bent over their toil.

“Uncle Tom will be very glad to see you,” said Sheba,as they went into the house. “Judge Rutherford says youwill tell us what to do.”

An interesting feature of the situation to Farquhar wasthe entire frankness and simplicity of those concerned in it.It was so clear that they knew nothing of the complicationsthey might be called upon to face, that their ignorance wasof the order of charm. If he had been some sharper claimantcome to fleece them, their visitor knew this youngdryad’s eyes would have smiled at him just as gratefully.

As they mounted the stairs, a huge laugh broke forthabove, and when they entered the small sitting-room UncleMatt stood before Big Tom, holding forth gravely, his graywool bared, his decently shabby hat in his hand.

“I’d er come as lady’s maid, Marse Thomas De Willoughby,”298he was saying, “ef I couldn’t er got here no otherway. Seemed like I jest got to honin’ atter Marse Rupert,an’ I couldn’t er stayed nohow. I gotter be whar dat boyis—I jestgotter.”

Big Tom, rising to his full height to shake hands withhis visitor, appeared physically to cast such disparagementon the size of the room as was almost embarrassing. Farquharsaw all his values as he met his honest, humourous eye.

“I’ve been talking to my nephew’s body-guard,” he said.“All right, Uncle Matt. You just go to Miss Burford andask her to find you a shake-down. There’s always a placeto be found for a fellow like you.”

“Marse Thomas De Willoughby,” said Matt, “dish yerniggah man’s not gwine to be in no one’s way. I come yereto work—dat’s what I come yere for. An’ work’s a thingdat kin be hunted down—en a man ain’t needin’ no gunto hunt it neder—an’ he needn’t be no mighty Nimrod.”And he made his best bow to both men and shuffled out ofthe room.

To Farquhar his visit was an interesting experience anda novel one. For months he had been feeling that he livedin the whirl of a maelstrom of schemes and jobberies, theinevitable result of the policy of a Government which hadpromised to recoup those it had involuntarily wronged duringa national convulsion. Upon every side there had sprungup claimants—many an honest one, and hordes of those nothonest. There were obvious thieves and specious ones, brillianttricksters and dull ones. Newspaper literature had beenincited by the number and variety of claims, and claims—toa jocularity which spread over all the land. Farquharhad seen most of the types—the greenhorn, the astute planner,the man who had a wrong burning in his breast, the299man who knew how to approach his subject and the manwho did not, the man who buttonholed everybody and wasdiffuse and hopeful, and the man who was helpless beforethe task he had undertaken. He had never, however, seenanything like the De Willoughby claimants—big Tom tellinghis straightforward story with his unsanguine air, theattractive youngster adding detail with simple directness,and the girl, Sheba, her roe’s eyes dilated with eager interesthanging upon their every word.

“It is one of the best stories I’ve heard,” he said to Rutherford,on their way back. “But it’s a big claim—it’s ahuge claim, and the Government is beginning to get restive.”

“But don’t you think they’ll get it through?” exclaimedJudge Rutherford. “Ain’t theybound to get it? It’s theLord’s truth—every word they speak—the Lord’s truth!”

“Yes,” answered Farquhar, “that’s how it struck me;but, as a rule, it isn’t the Lord’s truth that carries a bigclaim through.”

He broke into a short laugh, as if at an inward realisationof the aspect of the situation.

“They are as straightforward as a lot of children,” hesaid. “They have nothing to hide, and they wouldn’t knowhow to hide it if they had. It would be rather a joke if——”And he laughed again.

“Ah, well! if that very fact was the thing which carriedthem through,” his laugh ending in a shrewd smile.

“I don’t see where the joke would come in,” he said,rather ruefully. “I should have thought nothing else woulddo it for them.”300

“So you would,” he said. “That’s why you are the bestadvocate they could have. You are all woven out of thesame cloth. You stand by them—and so will I.”

Judge Rutherford seized his hand and shook it with affectionatelyardent pumpings.

“That’s what I wanted to make sure of,” he said. “I’mgoing to work at this thing, and I want a man to help mewho knows the ropes. Lord, how I should like to go backto Hamlin and tell Jenny and the boys that I’d put Tomthrough.”

And as they walked up the enclosed road to the Capitolhe devoted himself to describing anew Big Tom’s virtue,popularity, and witticisms.

For weeks Talbot’s Cross-roads found itself provided witha conversational topic of absorbing interest. Ethan Cronan,who had temporarily “taken on” the post-office and store,had no cause to fear that the old headquarters was in dangerof losing popularity. The truth was that big Tom hadso long presided over the daily gatherings that the newoccupant of the premises was regarded merely as a sort offriendly representative. Being an amiable and unambitioussoul, Ethan in fact regarded himself in the same light, andfelt supported and indeed elevated by the fact that he stoodin the shoes of a public character so universally popularand admired.

“I ain’t Tom, an’ I cayn’t never come a-nigh him,” hesaid; “but I kin do my best not to cast no disgrace on hisplace, an’ allus tradin’ as fair as I know how. It’s a kinderhonor to set in his chairs an’ weigh sugar out in the scaleshe used—an’ it drors trade too.”301

During the passage of the first few weeks, horses, waggons,and ox-teams crowded about the hitching-posts, whileexcitement ran high at mail-time. The general opinion wasthat any post might bring the news that Congress was “sittingon” the great De Willoughby claim, and that Washingtonwaited breathless for its decision. That all othernational business should be suspended seemed inevitable.That any mail should come and go without bringing somenews was not contemplated. The riders of the horses andowners of the waggons sat upon the stone porch and discussedprobabilities. They told each other stories they hadgathered of the bygone glories of the De Willoughbys, ofthe obstinate loyalty of the old Judge and the bitter indignationof his neighbours, and enlarged upon the strengthof the claim this gave him to the consideration of theGovernment.

“Tom won’t have no trouble with his claim,” was thegeneral opinion. “He’ll just waltz it through. Thar won’tbe a hitch.”

But after the first letter in which he announced his safearrival in the Capital City, Tom wrote no more for a weekor so, which caused a disappointment only ameliorated bythe belief that he was engaged in “waltzing” the claimthrough. Each man felt it necessary to visit the Cross-roadsevery day to talk over the possible methods employed, andto make valuable suggestions. Interest never flagged, butit was greatly added to when it was known that Judge Rutherfordhad ranged himself on Tom’s side.

“He’s the pop-larest man in Hamlin County,” it was said,“an’ he’s bound to be a pop’lar man in Congress, an’ havea pull.”

But when the summer had passed, and a touch of frost in302the night air loosened the chestnuts in their burrs, and astray morning breeze shook them in showers down upon thecarpet of rustling yellowed leaves, Tom’s letters had becomefew and far between, and none of them had contained anyaccount of the intentions of the legislative body with regardto the claim.

“There’s nothing to tell, boys,” he wrote. “As far asI’ve gone, it seems a man gets a claim through Congressby waiting about Washington and telling his story to differentpeople until he wears them out—or they wear himout.”

For some time after this they did not hear from him atall. The winter set in, and the habitués of the Cross-roadsPost-office gathered about the glowing stove. Under theinfluence of cold gray skies, biting air, leafless trees, andbare land, the claim seemed somehow to have receded intothe distance. The sanguine confidence of the communityhad not subsided into doubt so much as into helpless mystification.Months had passed and nothing whatsoever hadhappened.

“Seems somehow,” said Jabe Doty one night, as he tiltedhis chair forward and stared at the fire in the stove, “seemssomehow as if Tom was a right smart ways off—es ef he gotfurder as the winter closed in—a’most like Washin’ton cityhed moved a thousand miles or so out West somewhars, an’took him with it.”

To Tom himself it seemed that it was the old, easy-goingmountain life which had receded. The days when he had satupon the stone porch and watched the sun rise from behindone mountain and set behind another seemed to belong toa life lived centuries ago. But that he knew little of occultbeliefs and mysteries, he would have said to himself thatall these things must have happened in a long past incarnation.

The matter of the De Willoughby claim was brought beforethe House. Judge Rutherford opened the subject oneday with a good deal of nervous excitement. He had suppliedhimself with many notes, and found some little difficultyin managing them, being new to the work, and hegrew hot and uncertain because he could not secure anaudience. Claims had already become old and tiresomestories, and members who were unoccupied pursued theirconversation unmovedly, giving the speaker only an occasionaldetached glance. The two representatives of theircountry sitting nearest to him were, not at all furtively, eatingapples and casting their cores and parings into theirparticular waste-paper baskets. This was discouraging andbaffling. To quote the Judge himself, no one knew anythingabout Hamlin County, and certainly no one was disturbedby any desire to be told about it.

That night Rutherford went to the house near DupontCircle. Big Tom was sitting in the porch with Rupertand Sheba. Uncle Matt was digging about the roots of a304rose-bush, and the Judge caught a glimpse of Miss Burfordlooking out from behind the parlour curtains.

The Judge wore a wearied and vaguely bewildered lookas he sat down and wiped his forehead with a large, cleanwhite handkerchief.

Rupert and Sheba glanced at each other questioningly andlistened with anxious eyes.

“And it’s different in a different way from what I expected,”the Judge went on. “They might have said anddone a dozen things I should have been sort of ready for,but they didn’t. Somehow it seemed as if—as if the wholething didn’t matter.”

“Do you think,” she faltered, “that perhaps we shallnot get the money at all, Uncle Tom?”

“I’m afraid that if we do get it,” he answered, “it willnot come to us before we want it pretty badly—the Lordknows how badly.”

For every day counts in the expenditure of a limited sum,and on days of discouragement Tom’s calculation of theirresources left him a troubled man.

When Judge Rutherford had gone Rupert sat with Shebain the scented summer darkness. He drew his chair oppositeto hers and took one of her hands in both of his own.305

“Suppose I have done a wrong thing,” he said. “SupposeI have dragged you and Uncle Tom into trouble?”

“I am glad you came,” in a quick, soft voice. “I amglad you came.” And the slight, warm fingers closed roundhis.

He lifted them to his lips and kissed them over and overagain. “Are you glad I came?” he murmured. “Oh,Sheba! Sheba!”

“Because I love you so—and I am so young—and I don’tknow what to do. You know I love you, don’t you?”

She leaned forward so that he saw her lovely gazelle eyeslifted and most innocently tender. “I want you to love me,”she said; “I could not bear you not to love me.”

“But I don’t love you as Uncle Tom loves you, Sheba,”he said. “I love you—young as I am—I love you—differently.”

Her swaying nearer to him was a sweetly unconscious andinvoluntary thing. Their young eyes drowned themselvesin each other.

“I want you,” she said, the note of a young ring-doveanswering her mate murmuring in her voice, “I want youto love me—as you love me. I love your way of lovingme.”

“Darling!” broke from him, his boy’s heart beating fastand high. And their soft young lips were, through somemystery of power, drawn so near to each other that theymet like flowers moved to touching by the summer wind.

Later Rupert went to Tom, who sat by an open windowin his room and looked out on the moonlit stretch of avenue.306The boy’s heart was still beating fast, and, as the white lightstruck his face, it showed his eyes more like Delia Vanuxem’sthan they had ever been. Their darkness held just the lookTom remembered, but could never have described or explainedto himself.

“Uncle Tom,” he began, in an unsteady voice, “I couldn’tgo to bed without telling you.”

Tom glanced up at him and learned a great deal. Heput a big hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps I ought not to have done it,” he broke forth.“I did not know I was going to do it. I suppose I am tooyoung. I did not mean to—but I could not help it.”

“Her eyes were so lovely,” poured forth the boy. “Shelooked at me so like an angel. Whenever she is near me, itseems as if something were drawing us together.”

“I want to tell you all about it,” impetuously. “I havebeen so lonely, Uncle Tom, since my mother died. Youdon’t know how I loved her—how close we were to eachother. She was so sweet and wonderful—and I had nothingelse.”

He put the big hand on the boy’s knee this time. “Iloved her too,” he said, “andI had nothing else.”

“Then you know—you know!” cried Rupert. “You rememberwhat it was to sit quite near her and see her lookat you in that innocent way—how you longed to cry outand take her in your arms.”307

“It was like that to-night,” the young lover went on.“And I could not stop myself. I told her I loved her—andshe said she wanted me to love her—and we kissedeach other.”

Big Tom got up and stood before the open window. Hishands were thrust deep into his pockets and he stared outat the beauty of the night.

“Good Lord!” he said. “That’s whatought to come toevery man that lives—but it doesn’t.”

“From that first night when I rode through the mountainsover the white road and stopped at your gate—sinceI looked up and saw her standing on the balcony with thenarcissus in her hair it has always been the same thing. Itbegan that very moment—it was there when she leaned forwardand spoke to me. I had never thought of a womanbefore—I was too poor and sad and lonely and young. Andthere she was—all white—and it seemed as if she wasmine.”

“I am as poor as ever I was,” said Rupert. “I am abeggar if we lose our claim; but I am not sad, and I am notlonely—I can’t be—I can’t be! I am happy—everything’shappy—because she knows—and I have kissed her.”

“I don’t know,” impetuously; “but I knew I must cometo you. It seems a million years ago since that hot morning308in the old garden at Delisleville—when I had never seenher.”

“One of the things I have thought about a good deal,”said Tom, with quite a practical manner, “has been love.I had lots of time to think over things at the Cross-roads,and I used to work them out as far as my mind would carryme. Love’s as much an element as the rest of them. There’searth, air, fire, water—and love. It has to be calculated for.What I’ve reasoned out is that it has not been calculatedfor enough. It’s going tocome to all of us—and it willeither come and stay, and make the old earth bloom withflowers—or it will come and go, and leave it like a plainswept by fire. It’s not a trivial thing that only boys andgirls play with; it’s better—and worse. It ought to be preparedfor and treated well. It’s not often treated well.People have got into the way of expecting trouble and tragedyto come out of it. We are always hearing of its unhappinessin books. Poets write about it that way.”

“I suppose it is often unhappy,” said Rupert; “but justnow it seems as if itcould not be.”

“WhatI’ve been wanting to see,” said Tom, “is younglove come up like a flower and be given its dew and sunand rain—and bloom and bloom its best.”

“That poor child who lies on the hillside under the pines,”he went on, “Sheba’s mother—hers was young love—andit brought tragedy and death. Delia,” his voice was unsteady,“your mother’s was young love, and her heart wasbroken. No, it’s not often well treated. And when youand Sheba came to me that night with your boy and girleyes shining with gladness just because you had met eachother, I said to myself, ‘By the Lord, here is what it springs309from. Perhaps it may come to them; I wonder if itwill?’”

“Yes, I did,” was Tom’s answer. “You were young—youwere drawn together—it seemed natural. I used towatch you, and think it over, making a kind of picture tomyself of how it would be if two young things could meeteach other and join hands and wander on among roses untilthey reached the gate of life—and it swung open for themand they passed through and found another paradise.”

He stopped a second and turned to look at Rupert’sdreamy face with a smile not all humorous. “I’m a sentimentalchap for my size,” he added. “That’s what Iwanted for Sheba and you—that’s what I want. That sortof thing was left out of my life; but I should like to seeit before I’m done with. Good God! why can’t people behappy? I want people to behappy.”

“Then God have mercy on the soul of the man who wouldspoil it for you,” said Big Tom, with actual solemnity.“I’m not that man. You two just go on being happy; tryand make up for what your two mothers had to bear.”

Rupert got up from his chair and caught the big handin his. It was a boy’s action, and he looked particularlylike a boy as he did it. “It is just like you,” he brokeforth. “I did not know what you would say when I toldyou—but I ought to have known you would say somethinglike this. It’s—it’s as big as you are, Uncle Tom,” ingenuously.

That was his good-night. When he went away Big Tom310settled into his chair again and looked out for some timelonger at the bright night. He was going back to two othernights which lay in the years behind. One was the nighthe turned his back on Delisleville and rode towards themountain with a weight on his kindly heart which he hadgrimly told himself seemed to weigh a ton; the other wasthe night he had been wakened from his sleep by the knockon the door of the bedroom behind the Cross-roads Post-officeand had ridden out under the whiteness of the moonto find in the bare cabin at Blair’s Hollow the little fairgirl who had sobbed and died as she clung to his warm hand.

The world had heard and talked much of the ReverendJohn Baird in the years which followed his return to Willowfield.During the first few months after his reappearanceamong them, his flock had passed through a phase of restlessuncertainty with regard to him. Certain elder membersof his congregation had privately discussed questionsof doctrine with anxiousness. Had not Nature already arraignedherself upon the man’s side by bestowing upon hima powerful individuality, heads might have been shaken,and the matter discussed openly instead of in consideratelyconfidential conclave. It was, however, less easy to enterinto argument with such a man than with one slow anduncertain of tongue, and one whose fortunes rested in thehands of the questioners. Besides, it was not to be deniedthat even the elderly and argumentative found themselveslistening to his discourses. The young and emotional oftenthrilled and quaked before them. In his hour he was thepioneer of what to-day we call the modern, and seemed tospeak his message not to a heterogeneous mental mass, butto each individual man and woman who sat before him withupturned face. He was daringly human for the time inwhich he lived, it being the hour when humanity was overpoweredby deity, and to be human was to be iconoclastic.His was not the doctrine of the future—of future repentancefor the wrongs done to-day, of future reward for the goodto-day achieves, all deeds being balanced on a mercantile312account of profit and loss. His was a cry almost fierce,demanding, in the name of human woe, that to-day shallhold no cruelty, no evil done, even to the smallest and mostunregarded thing.

By some chance—though he alone realised the truth ofthe fact—the subjects of his most realistic and intense appealsto his hearers had the habit of developing themselvesin his close talks with Latimer. Among the friends of theman on whom all things seemed to smile, the man on whomthe sun had never shone, and who faithfully worshipped him,was known as his Shadow. It was not an unfitting figureof speech. Dark, gloomy, and inarticulate, he was a strangecontrast to the man he loved; but, from the hour he hadstood by Latimer’s side, leaning against the rail of the returningsteamer, listening to the monotonously related storyof the man’s bereavement, John Baird had felt that Fateherself had knit their lives together. He had walked thedeck alone long hours that night, and when the light of themoon had broken fitfully through the stormily driftingclouds, it had struck upon a pallid face.

“Poor fellow!” he had said between his teeth; “poordarkling, tragic fellow! I must try—try—oh, my God! Imust try——”

Then their lives had joined currents at Willowfield, andthe friendship Baird had asked for had built itself on afoundation of stone.

There was nothing requiring explanation in the fact thatto the less fortunate man Baird’s every gift of wit and easewas a pleasure and comfort. His mere physical attractionswere a sort of joy. When Latimer caught sight of his ownlank, ill-carried figure and his harshly rugged sallow face,he never failed to shrink from them and avert his eyes.313To be the companion of a man whose every movement suggestedstrength and grace, whose skin was clear and healthful,his features well balanced and admirable in line—tobe the friend of a human being built by nature as all humanbeings should be built if justice were done to them, wasnourishment to his own starved needs.

When he assumed his charge at the squalid little townof Janway’s Mills, his flock looked askance at him. Hewas not harsh of soul, but he was gloomy and had not thepower to convey encouragement or comfort, though he labouredwith strenuous conscientiousness. Among the sordidcommonness of the every-day life of the mill hands andtheir families he lived and moved as Savonarola had movedand lived in the midst of the picturesque wickedness andsplendidly coloured fanaticism of Italy in dim, rich centuriespast; but his was the asceticism and stern self-denialof Savonarola without the uplifting power of passionateeloquence and fire which, through their tempest, awakenedand shook human souls. He had no gifts of compellingfervor; he could not arouse or warm his hearers; he nevertouched them. He preached to them, he visited them attheir homes, he prayed beside their dying and their dead,he gave such aid in their necessities as the narrowness ofhis means would allow, but none of them loved him ordid more than stoically accept him and his services.

“Look at us as we stand together,” he said to Baird onan evening when they stood side by side within range ofan old-fashioned mirror. “Those things your reflectionrepresents show me the things I was born without. I mightmake my life a daily crucifixion of self-denial and duty doneat all costs, but I could not wear your smile or speak withyour voice. I am a man, too,” with smothered passion; “I314am a man, too! And yet—what woman looks smilingly atme—what child draws near unafraid?”

“You are of the severe monastic temperament,” answeredBaird. “It is all a matter of temperament. Mineis facile and a slave to its emotions. Saints and martyrs aremade of men like you—never of men such as I am.”

“Are you sure of the value to the world of saints andmartyrs?” said Latimer. “I am not. That is the worstof it.”

“Ah! the world,” Baird reflected. “If we dare to comeback to the world—to count it as a factor——”

“It is only the world we know,” Latimer said, his harshvoice unsteady; “the world’s sorrow—the world’s pain—theworld’s power to hurt and degrade itself. That is what seemsto concern us—if we dare to say so—we, who were thrustinto it against our wills, and forced to suffer and see otherssuffer. The man who was burned at the stake, or torn inthe arena by wild beasts, believed he won a crown for himself—butit was forhimself.”

“What doth it profit a man,” quoted Baird, vaguely, butas if following a thought of his own, “if he gain the wholeworld and lose his own soul?”

Latimer flung back his shock of uneven black locks. Hishollow eyes flashed daringly.

“What doth it profit a man,” he cried, “if he save hisown soul and lose the whole world, caring nothing for itsagony, making no struggle to help it in its woe and grieving?A Man once gave His life for the world. Has any manever given his soul?”

Latimer’s deep eyes dwelt upon him woefully. “Have315you known what it was to bear a heavy sin on your soul?”he asked.

“My dear fellow,” said John Baird, a little bitterly, “itis such men as I, whose temperaments—the combinationof forces you say you lack—lead them to the deeds the worldcalls ‘heavy sins’—and into the torment of regret whichfollows. You can bear no such burden—you have no suchregret.”

Latimer, whose elbow rested on the mantel, leaned ahaggard forehead on his hand.

“I have sinned,” he said. “It was that others mightbe spared; but I have put my soul in peril. Perhaps it islost—lost!”

Baird laid a hand on his shoulder and shook him. It wasa singular movement with passion in it.

“No! No!” he cried. “Rouse, man, and let your reasonspeak. In peril? Lost—for some poor rigid law brokento spare others? Great God! No!”

“Reason!” said Latimer. “What you and I must preacheach week of our lives is that it is not reason a man mustbe ruled by, but blind, wilful faith.”

“I do not preach it,” Baird interposed. “There arethings I dare to leave unsaid.”

“I have spoken falsely,” Latimer went on, heavily. “Ihave lived a lie—a lie—but it was to save pure hearts frombreaking. They would have broken beneath the weightof what I have borne for them. If I must bear punishmentfor that, I—Let me bear it.”

The rigid submission of generations of the Calvinisticconscience which presumed to ask no justice from its Godand gave praise as for mercy shown for all things whichwere not damnation, and which against damnation’s self316dared not lift its voice in rebellion, had so far influencedthe very building of his being that the revolt of reason inhis brain filled him with gloomy terror. There was theappeal of despair on his face as he looked at Baird.

“Your life, your temperament have given you a widerhorizon than mine,” he said. “I have never been in touchwith human beings. I have only read religious books—stern,pitiless things. Since my boyhood I have lived interror of the just God—the just God—who visits the sinsof the fathers upon the children even to the third and fourthgeneration. I—Baird—” his voice dropping, his face pallid,“I havehated Him. I keep His laws, it is my fate to preachHis word—and I cower before Him as a slave before atyrant, with hatred in my heart.”

“Good God!” Baird broke forth, involuntarily. Theforce of the man’s desperate feeling, his horror of himself,his tragic truthfulness, were strange things to stand faceto face with. He had never confronted such a thing before,and it shook him.

“Good God!” he repeated; “we all say that—I say itmyself. It seems the natural human cry. I wonder whatit means? It surely means something—something.”

“You are a more exalted creature than I could ever be,”he said. “I am a poor thing by comparison; but life struckthe wrong note for you. It was too harsh. You have livedamong the hideous cruelties of old doctrines until they havewrought evil in your brain.”

He stood up and threw out his arms with an involuntarygesture, as if he were flinging off chains.317

“Ah, they are not true! They are not true!” he exclaimed.“They belong to the dark ages. They are relicsof the days when the upholders of one religion believed thatthey saved souls by the stake and the rack and thumbscrew.There were men and women who did believe it with rigidhonesty. There were men and women who, believingin other forms, died in torture for their belief. Thereisno God Who would ask such demoniac sacrifice. We havecome to clearer days. Somewhere—somewhere there islight.”

“You were born with the temperament to see its far-offglimmer even in your darkest hour,” Latimer said. “It isfor such as you to point it out to such as I am. Show it tome—show it to me every moment if you can!”

“The world is surging away from it—the chained mind,the cruelty, the groping in the dark,” he said, “as it surgedaway from the revengeful Israelitish creed of ‘eye for eyeand tooth for tooth’ when Christ came. It has taken centuriesto reach, even thus far; but, as each century passed,each human creature who yearned over and suffered withhis fellow has been creeping on dragging, bleeding kneestowards the light. But the century will never come whichwill surge away from the Man who died in man’s agonyfor men. In thought of Him one may use reason and needsno faith.”

The germ of one of the most moving and frequentlyquoted of Baird’s much-discussed discourses sprang—he toldhis friends afterwards—from one such conversation, and wasthe outcome of speech of the dead girl Margery. On a blackand wet December day he came into his study, on his returnfrom some parish visits, to find Latimer sitting before the318fire, staring miserably at something he held in his hand.It was a little daguerrotype of Margery at fifteen.

“I found it in an old desk of mine,” he said, holding itout to Baird, who took it and slightly turned away to leanagainst the mantel, as he examined it.

The child’s large eyes seemed to light up the ugly shadowsof the old-fashioned mushroom hat she wore, the soft bowof her mouth was like a little Love’s, she bloomed with anangelic innocence, and in her straight sweet look was theunconscious question of a child-woman creature at the dawnof life.

There was a rather long silence. During its passing hewas far away. He was still far away when at length anexclamation left his lips. He did not hear his words himself—hedid not remember Latimer, or notice his quickmovement of surprise.

“Sometimes,” he said, low and passionately, “sometimesI am sick with longing for her—sick!”

Baird came back. The startled sound in the voice awokehim. He felt himself, as it were, dragged back from anotherworld, breathless, as by a giant’s hand. He looked up, dazed,the hand holding the daguerrotype dropping helplessly byhis side.

“It is not so strange that it should come to that,” he said.319“I seem to know her so well. I think,” there was a lookof sharp pain on his face—“I think I know the pitifulchildlike suffering her dying eyes held.” And the manactually shuddered a little.

“I know it—I know it!” Latimer cried, and he let hisforehead drop upon his hands and sat staring at the carpet.

“I have heard and thought of her until she has becomea living creature,” John Baird said. “I hear of her fromothers than yourself. Miss Starkweather—that poor girlfrom the mills, Susan Chapman—you yourself—keep herbefore me, alive. I seem to know the very deeps of herlovingness—and understand her. Oh, that she should havedied!” He turned his face away and spoke his next wordsslowly and in a lowered voice. “If I had found her whenI came back free—if I had found her here, living—we twomight have been brothers.”

“What are we saying?” he exclaimed, stammeringly.“What are we thinking of? For a moment it seemed as ifshe were alive again. Poor little Margery, with her eyeslike blue flowers, she has been dead years and years andyears.”

It was not long after this that the Reverend John Bairdstartled a Boston audience one night by his lecture, “Repentance.”In it he unfolded a new passionate creed whichproduced the effect of an electric shock. Newspapers reportedit, editorials discussed it, articles were written uponit in monthly magazines. “Repentance is too late,” was320the note his deepest fervour struck with virile, almost terrible,intensity. “Repent before your wrong is done.”

“Repentance comes too late,” he cried. “We say a mansaves his soul by it—his soul! We are a base, cowardly lot.Our own souls are saved—yes! And we hug ourselves andare comforted. But what of the thing we have hurt—forno man ever lost his soul unless he lost it by the woundhe gave another—by inflicting in some other an agony?What of the one who has suffered—who has wept blood?I repent and savemyself; but repentance cannot undo.The torture has been endured—the tears of blood shed. Itis not to God I must kneel and pray for pardon, but to thatone whose helplessness I slew, and, though he grant it me,he still has been slain.”

The people who sat before him stirred in their seats; someleaned forward, breathing quickly. There were those whoturned pale; here and there a man bent his head and awoman choked back a sob, or sat motionless with streamingeyes. “Repentance is too late—except for him who buyshope and peace with it. A lifetime of it cannotundo.” Theold comfortable convention seemed to cease to be supporting.It seemed to cease to be true that one may wound andcrush and kill, and then be admirable in escaping by smugrepentance. It seemed to cease to be true that humanityneed count only with an abstract, far-off Deity Who caneasily afford to pardon—that one of his poor myriads hasbeen done to death. It was all new—strange—direct—andeach word fell like a blow from a hammer, because a strong,dramatic, reasoning creature spoke from the depths of hisown life and soul. In him Humanity rose up an awful reality,which must itself be counted with—not because itcould punish and revenge, but because the laws of nature321cried aloud as a murdered man’s blood cries from theground.

As Baird crossed the pavement to reach his cab, the firstnight he delivered this lecture, a man he knew but slightlystepped to his side and spoke to him.

Baird turned and looked at him in some surprise. Therewere cabs enough within hailing distance. The man waswell known as a journalist, rather celebrated for his goodlooks and masculine charm. He was of the square-shouldered,easy-moving, rich-coloured type; just now his handsomeeye looked perturbed.

“I am going away suddenly,” he said, in answer to Baird’squestioning expression. “I want to catch the next train.I want you to see me off—you.”

“Let us get in,” was Baird’s brief reply. He had aninstant revelation that the circumstance was not trivial oraccidental.

As the door closed and the cab rolled away his companionleaned back, folding his arms.

“I had an hour to pass before keeping an appointment,”he said. “And I dropped in to hear you. You put thingsbefore a man in a new way. You are appallingly vivid. Iam not going to keep my appointment. It is not easynotto keep it! I shall take the train to New York and catchto-morrow’s steamer to Liverpool. Don’t leave me untilyou have seen me off. I want to put the Atlantic Oceanand a year of time between myself and——”

“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed the other man savagely.“Call her that if you like—call me that—call the whole322thing that! She does not realise where we are drifting.She’s a lovely dreamer and has not realised that we arehuman. I did not allow myself to realise it until the passionof your words brought me face to face with myself. I amrepenting in time. Don’t leave me! I can’t carry it throughto-night alone.”

John Baird leaned back in the corner of the carriage andfolded his arms also. His heart was leaping beneath them.

“Great God!” he said, out of the darkness. “I wishsomeone had said such words to me—years ago—and notleft me afterwards! Years ago!”

“I thought so,” his companion answered, briefly. “Youcould not have painted it with such flaming power—otherwise.”

They did not speak again during the drive. They scarcelyexchanged a dozen words before they parted. The trainwas in the station when they entered it.

Five minutes later John Baird stood upon the platform,looking after the carriages as they rolled out noisily behindtrailing puffs of smoke and steam.

He had asked no questions, and, so far as his own knowledgewas concerned, this was the beginning, the middle, andthe end of the story. But he knew that there had beena story, and there might have been a tragedy. It seemedthat the intensity of his own cry for justice and mercy hadarrested at least one of the actors in it before the curtainfell.

A few nights later, as they sat together, Baird and Latimerspoke of this incident and of the lecture it had followedupon.

“Repentance! Repentance!” Latimer said. “What ledyou to dwell upon repentance?”323

“Thirty years of life,” was Baird’s answer. “Forty ofthem.” He was leaning forward gazing into the red-hotcoals. “And after our talk,” he added, deliberately.“Margery.”

“Yes,” he said. “Her picture. Her innocent face andthe soft, helpless youth of it. Such young ignorance ishelpless—helpless! If in any hour of ruthlessness—or madness—aman had done such tenderness a wrong, what repentance—whatrepentance could undo?”

“None,” said Latimer, and the words were a groan.“None—through all eternity.”

It was not a long silence which followed, but it seemedlong to both of them. A dead stillness fell upon the room.Baird felt as if he were waiting for something. He knewhe was waiting for something, though he could not haveexplained to himself the sensation. Latimer seemed waitingtoo—awaiting the power and steadiness to reach some resolve.But at length he reached it. He sat upright andclutched the arms of his chair. It was for support.

“Why not now?” he cried; “why not now? I trustyou! I trust you! Let me unburden my soul. I will try.”

It was Baird’s involuntary habit to sink into easy attitudes;the long, supple form of his limbs and body lentthemselves to grace and ease. But he sat upright also, hishands unconsciously taking hold upon the arms of his chairas his companion did.

For a moment the two gazed into each other’s eyes, andthe contrast between their types was a strange one—theone man’s face dark, sallow, harsh, the other fine, sensitive,and suddenly awake with emotion.324

“I trust you,” said Latimer again. “I would not haveconfessed the truth to any other living creature—upon therack.”

“You would not have confessed thetruth,” Baird asked,in a hushed voice, “about what?”

“She did not die in Italy,” he said. “She did not dielying smiling in the evening sun.”

“She died,” Latimer continued, in dull confession, “ina log cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. She diedin anguish—the mother of an hour-old child.”

As the years had passed, more than once he had beenhaunted by a dread that some day he might come upon sometragic truth long hidden. Here he was face to face with it.But what imagination could have painted it like this?

“I never understood,” he said. “She was a pure creature,and a loving, innocent one.”

“Yes,” Baird groaned; “loving and innocent. Go on—goon! It breaks my heart—it breaks my heart!”

Remembering that he had said “You might have been325my brother,” Latimer caught his breath in a groan too. Heunderstood. He had forgotten—forgotten. But now hemust go on.

“At home she had been always a bright, happy, tenderthing. She loved us and we loved her. She was full ofdelicate gifts. We are poor people; we denied ourselvesthat we might send her to Boston to develop her talent.She went away, radiant and full of innocent gratitude. Forsome time she was very happy. I was making every effortto save money to take her abroad that she might work inthe studios there. She had always been a delicate littlecreature—and when it seemed that her health began to fail,we feared the old terrible New England scourge of consumption.It always took such bright things as she was. Whenshe came home for a visit her brightness seemed gone. Shedrooped and could not eat or sleep. We could not bear torealise it. I thought that if I could take her to France orItaly she might be saved. I thought of her day and night—dayand night.”

He paused, and the great knot in his throat worked convulsivelyin the bondage of his shabby collar. He beganagain when he recovered his voice.

“I thought too much,” he said. “I don’t know how itwas. But just at that time there was a miserable storygoing on at the mills—I used to see the poor girl day byday—and hear the women talk. You know how that classof woman talks and gives you details and enlarges on them?The girl was about Margery’s age. I don’t know how it was;but one day, as I was standing listening to a gossippingmarried woman in one of their squalid, respectable parlours,and she was declaiming and denouncing and pouring forthanecdotes, suddenly—quite suddenly—I felt as if something326had struck me. I turned sick and white and had to sit down.Oh, God! what an afternoon that was! and how long itseemed before I got back home.”

He stopped again. This time he wiped sweat from hisforehead before he continued, hoarsely:

“I cannot go over it—I cannot describe the steps by whichI was led to—horrid fear. For two weeks I did not sleepa single night. I thought I was going mad. I laid awakemaking desperate plans—to resort to in case—in case——!”

“One day I told my mother I was going to Boston to seeMargery—to talk over the possibility of our going abroadtogether with the money I had worked for and saved. I haddone newspaper work—I had written religious essays—I hadtaught. I went to her.”

It was Baird who broke the thread of his speech now.He had been standing before a window, his back to theroom. He turned about.

Baird stood stock still; if Latimer had been awake toexternals he would have seen that it was because he couldnot move—or speak. He was like a man stunned.

“She was sitting in her little room alone when I enteredit. She looked as if she had been passing through hoursof convulsive sobbing. She sat with her poor little handsclutching each other on her knees. Hysteric shudders wereshaking her every few seconds, and her eyes were blindedwith weeping. A child who had been beaten brutally might327have sat so. She was too simple and weak to bear the awfulterror and woe. She was not strong enough to conceal whatthere was to hide. She did not even get up to greet me,but sat trembling like an aspen leaf.”

“I only remember as one remembers a nightmare,” theother man answered, passing his hand over his brow. “Itwas a black nightmare. I saw before I spoke, and I beganto shake as she was shaking. I sat down before her andtook both her hands. I seemed to hear myself saying, ‘Margery—Margery,don’t be frightened—don’t be afraid of Lucian.I will help you, Margery; I have come to talk to you—justto talk to you.’ That was all. And she fell uponthe floor and lay with her face on my feet, her hands clutchingthem.”

For almost five minutes there was no other word spoken,but the breathing of each man could be heard.

“I had but one resolve. It was to save her and to savemy mother. All the soul of our home and love was boundup in the child. Among the desperate plans I had made inthe long nights of lying awake there had been one strangerthan the rest. I had heard constantly of Americans encounteringeach other by chance when they went abroad.When one has a secret to keep one is afraid of every chance,however remote. Perhaps my plan was mad, but it accomplishedwhat I wanted. Years before I had travelled throughthe mountain districts of North Carolina. One day, in ridingthrough the country roads, I had realised their strangeremoteness from the world, and the fancy had crossed mymind that a criminal who dressed and lived as the rudely328scattered population did, and who chose a lonely spot inthe woods, might be safer there than with the ocean rollingbetween him and his secret. I spent hours in telling herthe part she was to play. It was to be supposed that wehad gone upon the journey originally planned. We wereto be hidden—apparently man and wife—in some log cabinoff the road until all was over. I studied the details as adetective studies his case. I am not a brilliant man, andit was intricate work; but I was desperate. I read guide-booksand wrote letters from different points, and arrangedthat they should be sent to our mother at certain dates forthe next few months.

“My stronghold was that she was quite ignorant of traveland would think of nothing but that the letters came fromme and were about Margery. I made Margery write two orthree. Then I knew I could explain that she was not strongenough to write herself. I was afraid she might break downbefore we could leave home; but she did not. I got heraway. By roundabout ways we travelled to the North Carolinamountains. We found a deserted cabin in the woods,some distance from the road. We dressed ourselves in therough homespun of the country. She went barefooted, asmost of the women did. We so secluded ourselves that itwas some time before it was known that our cabin was inhabited.The women have a habit of wearing deep sunbonnetswhen about their work. Margery always wore oneand kept within doors. We were thought to be only an unsociablemarried pair. Only once she found herself facingcurious eyes. A sharp-faced little hoosier stopped one dayto ask for a drink of water when I was away. He staredat her so intently that she was frightened; but he nevercame again. The child was born. She died.”329

“We were alone,” answered Latimer. “I did not knowwhom to call. I read medical books—for hours each dayI read them. I thought that perhaps I might be able to do—whatwas necessary. But on the night she was taken ill—Iwas stricken with terror. She was so young and childlike—shehad lived through months of torture—the agonyseemed so unnatural to me, that I knew I must go for help—thatI was not mentally calm enough to go through theordeal. A strange chance took me to a man who had yearsbefore studied medicine as a profession. He was a singularbeing, totally unlike his fellows. He came to her. She diedwith her hand in his.”

“No; it lived. After she was laid in the earth on thehillside, I came away. It was the next day, and I was notsane. I had forgotten the child existed, and had made noplans for it. The man I spoke of—he was unmarried andlonely, and a strange, huge creature of a splendid humaneness—hehad stood by me through all—a mountain ofstrength—the man came to my rescue there and took thechild. It would be safe with him. I know nothing more.”

“Yes; he was called Dwillerby by the country people.I think he had been born a gentleman, though he livedas the mountaineers did.”

“Yes. I invented the story of her death. I wrote thedetails carefully. I learned them as a lesson. It has beenmy mother’s comfort—that story of the last day—the open330window—the passing peasants—the setting sun—I can seeit all myself. That is my lie. Did you suspect it when Itold it?”

“What I have thought was that you had suffered muchmore than you wished your mother to know; that—perhaps—yoursister had suffered more than you would reveal; andthat you dreaded with all your being the telling of the story.But never such tragedy as this—never—never!”

“The man—the man who wrought that tragedy,” beganLatimer, staring darkly before him, “somewhere he standsto-night—unless his day is done. Somewhere he stands—asreal a man asyou.”

“With all his load upon him,” said Baird; “and he mayhave loved her passionately.”

“It should be a heavy load,” said Latimer, with bittergloom; “heavy—heavy.”

“You have not once uttered his name,” said Baird, thethought coming to him suddenly.

“No,” said Latimer; “I never knew it. She prayed sopiteously that I would let her hide it. She knelt and sobbedupon my knee, praying that I would spare her that one woe.I could spare her no other, so I gave way. She thanked me,clinging to me and kissing my hand. Ah, her young, youngheart wrung with sobs and tears!”

He flung himself forward against the table, hiding his faceupon his arms, and wept aloud. Baird went and stood byhim. He did not speak a word or lay his hand upon theshaking shoulders. He stood and gazed, his own chest heavingand awful tears in his eyes.

In later years, one at least of the two men never glancedback upon the months which followed without a shudder.And yet outwardly no change took place in their relations,unless they seemed drawn closer. Such a secret being sharedbetween two people must either separate or bind them together.In this case it became a bond. They spoke of itbut little, yet each was well aware that the other rememberedoften. Sometimes, when they sat together, Latimer recognisedin Baird’s eyes a look of brooding and felt that heknew what his thought was; sometimes Baird, glancing athis friend, found his face darkened by reverie, and understood.Once, when this was the case, he said, suddenly:

“It is too late,” Latimer answered. “It would undonothing. If by doing it I could bring her back as she wasbefore she had seen his face—if I could see her again, thepretty, happy child, with eyes like blue convolvulus, andlaughing lips—I would kill him and gladly hang for it.”

“To crucify him would notundo it,” said Latimer, lookingsickly pale. “She was crucified—she lived through terrorand shame; she died—afraid that God would not forgiveher.”

“We were brought up to believe things like that,” he said.332“I was afraid, too. That was the damnable part of it. Icould not help her. I have changed since then—I havechanged through knowing you. As children we had alwaysbeen threatened with the just God! The most successfulpreachers gained their power by painting pictures of thetorments of hell. That was the fashion then,” smiling horribly.

“It is a wonderful thing that even the fashion in Godschanges. When we were shut up together in the cabin onthe hillside, she used to be overwhelmed by paroxysms offear. She read the Bible a great deal—because sinners whowanted to repent always read it—and sometimes she wouldcome upon threats and curses, and cry out and turn whiteand begin to shiver. Then she would beg me to pray andpray with her. And we would kneel down on the bare floorand pray together. My prayers were worse than useless.What could I say? I was a black sinner, too—a man whowas perjuring his soul with lies—and they were told andacted for her sake, and she knew it. She used to cling aboutmy neck and beg me to betray her—to whiten my soul byconfession—not to allow her wickedness to destroy me—becauseshe loved me—loved me. ‘Go back to them and tellthem, Lucien,’ she would cry, ‘I will go with you if Iought—I have been wicked—not you—I have been shameful;I must bear it—I must bear it.’ But she could notbear it. She died.”

“Were you never able to give her any comfort?” saidBaird. His eyes were wet, and he spoke as in bitter appeal.“This had been a child in her teens entrapped into bearingthe curse of the world with all its results of mental horrorand physical agony.”

“What comfort could I give?” was the answer. “My333religion and my social creed had taught me that she was avile sinner—the worst and most shameful of sinners—andthat I was a criminal for striving to save her from the consequencesof her sin. I was defying the law of the just God,who would have punished her with heart-break and openshame. He would not have spared her, and He would notspare me since I so strove against Him. The night shedied—through the long hours of horrible, unnatural convulsionsof pain—when cold sweat stood in drops on herdeathly childish face, she would clutch my hands and cryout: ‘Eternal torments! For ever and ever and ever—couldit be like this, Lucien—for ever and ever and ever?’ Thenshe would sob out, ‘God! God! God!’ in terrible, helplessprayer. She had not strength for other words.”

“Was there no one—to save her?” Baird cried. “Wasshe terrified like that when she died?”

“The man who afterwards took her child—the manD’Willerby,” Latimer answered, “was a kindly soul. Atthe last moment he took her poor little hand and patted it,and told her not to be frightened. She turned to him asif for refuge. He had a big, mellow voice, and a tender,protecting way. He said: ‘Don’t be frightened. It’s allright,’ and his were the last words she heard.”

“God bless the fellow, wheresoever he is!” Baird exclaimed.“I should like to grasp his hand.”

The Reverend John Baird delivered his lectures in many334cities that year. The discussion they gave rise to had thenatural result of awakening a keen interest in them. Therewere excellent souls who misinterpreted and deplored them,there were excellent souls who condemned; there were evenministers of the gospel who preached against the man asan iconoclast and a pagan, and forbade their congregationsto join his audiences. But his lecture-halls were alwayscrowded, and the hundreds of faces upturned to him whenhe arose upon his platform were the faces of eager, breathless,yearning creatures. He was a man speaking to men,not an echo of old creeds. He uttered no threats, he paintedno hells, he called aloud to that God in man which is hissoul.

“That God which is in you—in me,” he proclaimed, “haslain dormant because undeveloped man, having made forhimself in the dark ages gods of wood and stone, demandingawful sacrifice, called forth for himself later a deity as material,though embodied in no physical form—a God of vengeanceand everlasting punishments. This is the man-createddeity, and in his name man has so clamoured that theGod which is man’s soul has been silenced. Let this Godrise, and He will so demand justice and noble mercy fromall creatures to their fellows that temptation and sufferingwill cease. What! can we do no good deed without thepromise of paradise as reward? Can we refrain from noevil unless we are driven to it by the threat of hell? Arewe such base traffickers that we make merchandise of oursouls and bargain for them across a counter? Let us awake!I say to you from the deepest depths of my aching soul—ifthere were no God to bargain with, then all the more awfulneed that each man constitute himself a god—of justice,pity, and mercy—until the world’s wounds are healed and335each human thing can stand erect and claim the joy of lifewhich is his own.”

On the morning of the day he said these words to thecrowd which had flocked to hear him, he had talked longwith Latimer. For some weeks he had not been strong.The passion of intensity which ruled him when he spoke tohis audiences was too strong an emotion to leave no physicaltrace. After a lecture or sermon he was often pallid andshaken.

“I have things to say,” he exclaimed feverishly to Latimer.“There are things which must be said. The spokenword lives—for good or evil. It is a sound sent echoingthrough all the ages to come. Some men have awakenedechoes which have thrilled throughout the world. To speakone’s thought—to use mere words—it seems such a smallthing—and yet it is my conviction that nothing which issaid is really ever forgotten.”

And his face was white, his eyes burning, when at nighthe leaned forward to fling forth to his hearers his final arraignment.

“I say to you, were there no God to bargain with, thenall the more awful need that each man constitute himselfa god of justice, pity, and mercy—until the world’s woundsare healed and each human thing can stand erect and claimthe joy of life which is his own.”

The people went away after the lecture, murmuringamong themselves. Some of them carried away awakeningin their eyes. They all spoke of the man himself; of hiscompelling power, the fire of meaning in his face, and themusical, far-reaching voice, which carried to the remotestcorner of the most crowded buildings.

“It is not only his words one is reached by,” it was said.336“It is the man’s self. Truly, he cries out from the depthsof his soul.”

This was true. It was the man himself. Nature hadarmed him well—with strength, with magnetic force, witha tragic sense of the anguish of things, and with that brainwhich labours far in advance of the thought of the hour.Men with such brains—brains which work fiercely and unceasinglyeven in their own despite—reach conclusions notyet arrived at by their world, and are called iconoclasts.Some are madly overpraised, some have been made martyrs,but their spoken word passes onward, and if not in theirown day, in that to-morrow which is the to-day of othermen, the truth of their harvest is garnered and bound intosheaves.

At the closing of his lectures, men and women crowdedabout him to speak to him, to grasp his hand. When theywere hysterical in their laudations, his grace and readinesscontrolled them; when they were direct and earnest, hefound words to say which they could draw aid from later.

“Am I developing—or degenerating—into a popularpreacher?” he said once, with a half restless laugh, to hisshadow.

“You are not popular,” was Latimer’s answer. “Popularis not the word. You are proclaiming too new and bolda creed.”

“That is true,” said Baird. “The pioneer is not popular.When he forces his way into new countries he encountersthe natives. Sometimes they eat him—sometimes they drivehim back with poisoned arrows. The country is their own;they have their own gods, their own language. Why shoulda stranger enter in?”

“But there is no record yet of a pioneer who lived—or337died—in vain,” said Latimer. “Some day—someday——”

He stopped and gazed at his friend, brooding. His lovefor him was a strong and deep thing. It grew with eachhour they spent together, with each word he heard himspeak. Baird was his mental nourishment and solace. Whenthey were apart he found his mind dwelling on him as asort of habit. But for this one man he would have liveda squalid life among his people at Janney’s Mills—squalidbecause he had not the elasticity to rise above its narrow,uneducated dullness. The squalor so far as he himself wasconcerned was not physical. His own small, plain homewas as neat as it was simple, but he had not the temperamentwhich makes a man friends. Baird possessed this temperament,and his home was a centre of all that was most living.It was not the ordinary Willowfield household. The largerouter world came and went. When Latimer went to it hewas swept on by new currents and felt himself warmed andfed.

There had been scarcely any day during years in whichthe two men had not met. They had made journeys together;they had read the same books and encountered thesame minds. Each man clung to the intimacy.

“I want this thing,” Baird had said more than once; “ifyou want it, I want it more. Nothing must rob us of it.”

“The time has come—it came long ago—” his Shadowsaid, “when I could not live without it. My life has grownto yours.”

It was Latimer’s pleasure that he found he could be anaid to the man who counted for so much to him. Affairswhich pressed upon Baird he would take in hand; he wasable to transact business for him, to help him in the development338of his plans, save him frequently both time and fatigue.It fell about that when the lectures were deliveredat distant points the two men journeyed together.

Latimer entered Baird’s library on one occasion just asa sharp-faced, rather theatrical-looking man left it.

“You’ll let me know your decision, sir, as soon as possible,”the stranger departed, saying. “These things oughtalways to be developed just at the right moment. This isyour right moment. Everybody is talking you over, oneway or another.” When the stranger was gone, Baird explainedhis presence.

“That is an agent,” he said; “he proposes that I shalllecture through the States. I—don’t know,” as if ponderingthe thing.

“The more the better,” said Baird, reflectively; “I knowthat—the more the better.”

They sat and talked the matter over at length. Theobjections to it were neither numerous nor serious.

“And I want to say these things,” said Baird, a littlefeverishly. “I want to say them again and again.”

Before they parted for the night it was decided that heshould accede to the proposal, and that Latimer shouldarrange to be his companion.

“It is the lecture ‘Repentance,’ he tells me, is most indemand,” Baird said, as he walked to the door, with a handin Latimer’s.

Frequenters of the Capitol—whether loungers or politicians—hadsoon become familiar with the figure of oneof the De Willoughby claimants. It was too large a figurenot to be quickly marked and unavoidably remembered.Big Tom slowly mounting the marble steps or standing onthe corridors was an object to attract attention, and inquiriesbeing answered by the information that he was a party toone of the largest claims yet made, he not unnaturally wasdiscussed with interest.

“He’s from the depths of the mountains of North Carolina,”it was explained; “he keeps a cross-roads store andpost-office, but he has some of the best blood of the Southin his veins, and his claim is enormous.”

“Who knows? He has mortgaged all he owns to makethe effort. The claim is inherited from his father, JudgeDe Willoughby, who died at the close of the war. As helived and died within the Confederacy, the Governmentholds that he was disloyal and means to make the mostof it. The claimants hold that they can prove him loyal.They’ll have to prove it thoroughly. The Government isgrowing restive over the claims of Southerners, and thereis bitter opposition to be overcome.”

“Yes. Lyman nearly lost his last election because he hadfavoured a Southern claim in his previous term. His constituentsare country patriots, and they said they weren’tsending a man to Congress to vote for Rebs.”

“That’s the trouble. When men’s votes are endangered340by a course of action they grow ultra-conservative. A vote’sa vote.”

That was the difficulty, as Tom found. A vote was avote. The bitterness of war had not yet receded far enoughinto the past to allow of unprejudiced judgment. Membersof political parties were still enemies, wrongs still rankled,graves were yet new, wounds still ached and burned. Menwho had found it to their interest to keep at fever heatthe fierce spirit of the past four years of struggle and bloodshed,were not willing to relinquish the tactics which hadbrought fortunes to them. The higher-minded were determinedthat where justice was done it should be done whereit was justice alone, clearly proved to be so. There had beentoo many false and idle claims brought forward to admitof the true ones being accepted without investigation anddelay. In the days when old Judge De Willoughby hadwalked through the streets of Delisleville, ostracized andalmost hooted as he passed among those who had once beenhis friends, it would not have been difficult to prove thathe was loyal to the detested Government, but in these latertimes, when the old man lay quiet in what his few remainingcontemporaries still chose to consider a dishonoured grave,undeniable proof of a loyalty which now would tend to thehonour and advantage of those who were of his blood wasnot easy to produce.

“The man lived and died in the Confederacy,” was saidby those who were in power in Washington.

Most of those who might have furnished it if they would,were either scattered as to the four winds of the earth, orwere determined to give no aid in the matter.

“A Southerner who deserted the South in its desperate341struggle for life need not come to Southern gentlemen toask them to help him to claim the price of his infamy.”That was the Delisleville point of view, and it was difficultto cope with. If Tom had been a rich man and could havejourneyed between Delisleville and the Capital, or wheresoeverthe demands of his case called him, to see and arguewith this man or that, the situation would have simplifieditself somewhat, though there would still have remainedobstacles to be overcome.

“But a man who has hard work to look his room rentin the face, and knows he can’t do that for more than a fewmonths, is in a tight place,” said Tom. “Evidence that willsatisfy the Government isn’t easily collected in Dupont Circle.These fellows have heard men talk before. They’veheard too many men talk. There’s Stamps, now—they’veheard Stamps talk. Stamps is way ahead of me where lobbyingis concerned. He knows the law, and he doesn’t mindhaving doors shut in his face or being kicked into the street,so long as he sees a chance of getting indemnified for his‘herds of cattle.’ I’m not a business man, and I mind alot of things that don’t trouble him. I’m not a good handat asking favours and sitting down to talk steadily for asolid hour to a man who doesn’t want to hear me and hasn’tfive minutes to spare.” But for Rupert and Sheba he wouldhave given up the claim in a week and gone back to Talbot’sCross-roads content to end his days as he began them whenhe opened the store—living in the little back rooms on beansand bacon and friend chicken and hominy.

“That suited me well enough,” he used to say to himself,when he thought the thing over. “There were times whenI found it a bit lonely—but, good Lord! loneliness is asmall thing for a man to complain of in a world like this.342It isn’t fits or starvation. When a man’s outlived the habitof expecting happiness, it doesn’t take much to keep himgoing.”

But at his side was eager youth which had outlived nothing,which believed in a future full of satisfied yearningsand radiant joys.

“I am not alone now,” said Rupert; “I must make aplace and a home for Sheba. I must not be only a boyin love with her; I must be a man who can protect her fromeverything—from everything. She is so sweet—she is sosweet. She makes me feel that I am a man.”

She was sweet. To big Tom they were both sweet intheir youth and radiant faith and capabilities for happiness.They seemed like children, and the tender bud of theirlovely young passion was a thing to be cherished. He hadseen such buds before, but he had never seen the flower.

“I’d like to see the flower,” he used to say to himself.“To see it would pay a man for a good deal he’d missedhimself. The pair of them could set up a pretty fair gardenof Eden—serpents and apple-trees being excluded.”

They were happy. Even when disappointments befellthem and prospects were unpromising they were happy.They could look into each other’s eyes and take comfort.Rupert’s dark moods had melted away. He sometimes forgotthey had ever ruled him. His old boyish craving forlove and home was fed. The bare little rooms in the poorlittle house were home. Sheba and Tom were love andaffection. When they sat at the table and calculated howmuch longer their diminishing store would last, even as itgrew smaller and smaller, they could laugh over the sumsthey worked out on slips of paper. So long as the weatherwas warm enough they strolled about together in the fragrant343darkness or sat in the creeper-hung porch, in the lightof summer moons; when the cold nights came they satabout the stove or the table and talked, while Sheba sewedbuttons on or worked assiduously at the repairing of hersmall wardrobe. Whatsoever she did, the two men sat andadmired, and there was love and laughter.

The strenuous life which went on in the busier part ofthe town—the politics, the struggles, the plots and schemes,the worldly pleasures—seemed entirely apart from them.

Sometimes, after a day in which Judge Rutherford hadbeen encouraged or Tom had had a talk with a friendlymember who had listened to the story of the claim withsigns of interest, they felt their star of hope rising; it neversinks far below the horizon when one’s teens are scarcelyof the past—and Sheba and Rupert spent a wonderful eveningmaking plans for a future of ease and fortune.

At Judge Rutherford’s suggestion, Tom had long soughtan interview with a certain member of the Senate whosegood word would be a carrying weight in any question underdebate. He was a shrewd, honest, business-like man, anda personal friend of the President’s. He was much pursuedby honest and dishonest alike, and, as a result of experience,had become difficult to reach. On the day Tom was admittedto see him, he had been more than usually badgered.Just as Tom approached his door a little man opened itcautiously and slid out, with the air of one leaving withinthe apartment things not exhilarating on retrospect. Hewas an undersized country man, the cut of whose jeanswore a familiar air to Tom’s eye even at a distance andbefore he lifted the countenance which revealed him asMr. Stamps.

“We ain’t a-gwine to do your job no good to-day, Tom,”344he said, benignly. “He’d ‘a’ kicked me out ef I hadn’t ‘a’bin small—jest same es you was gwine ter that time Icome to talk to ye about Sheby. He’s a smarter man thanyou be, an’ he seed the argyment I hed to p’int out to you.Ye won’t help your job none to-day!”

“I haven’t got a ‘job’ in hand,” Tom answered; “yourherds of stock and the Judge’s coal mines and cotton fieldsare different matters.”

He passed on and saw that when his name was announcedthe Senator looked up from his work with a fretted movementof the head.

“Mr. De Willoughby of Talbot’s Cross-roads?” he said.Tom bowed. He became conscious of appearing to occupytoo much space in the room of a busy man who had plainlybeen irritated.

“I was told by Judge Rutherford that you had kindlyconsented to see me,” he said.

The Senator tapped the table nervously with his penciland pushed some papers aside.

“Well, I find I have no time to spare this morning,” washis brutally frank response. “I have just been forced togive the time which might have been yours to a little hoosierwho made his way in, heaven knows how, and refused to beordered out. He had a claim, too, and came from yourcounty and said he was an old friend of yours.”

“He is not an old enemy,” answered Tom. “There isthat much foundation in the statement.”

“Well, he has occupied the time I had meant to give you,”said the Senator, “and I was not prepossessed either byhimself or his claim.”

“I think he’s a man to gain a claim,” said Tom; “I’mafraid I’m not.”345

“It is fair to warn you that I am not friendly to claimsmade by the families of men who lived in a hot-bed ofsecession,” said the Senator. He had been badgered toomuch this morning, and this big, rather convincing lookingapplicant worried him. “I have an appointment at theWhite House in ten minutes.”

“Then this is no place for me,” said Tom. “No manis likely to be friendly to a thing he has no time to talkof. I will bid you good-morning.”

Tom went away feeling that he was a blunderer. Thefact was that he was a neophyte and, it was true, did notpossess the qualities which make a successful lobbyist. Mr.Stamps had wheedled or forced his way into the great man’sapartment and had persisted in remaining to press his claimuntil he was figuratively turned out by the shoulders. BigTom had used only such means to obtain the interview asa gentleman might; he had waited until he was called totake his turn, and so had lost his chance. When he hadfound the Senator hurried and unwilling to spend time onhim he had withdrawn at once, not feeling Mr. Stamps’smethod to be possible.

“I suppose I ought to have stayed and buttonholed himin spite of himself,” he thought, ruefully. “I’m a greenhorn;I suppose a man in my place ought to stand hisground whether it’s decent or indecent, and make peoplelisten to what he has to say, and be quite willing to be kickeddownstairs after he has said it. I’m a disgrace to my species—andI don’t think much of the species.”

As he was walking through one of the corridors he sawbefore him two men who were evidently visitors to theplace. He gathered this from their leisurely movements346and the interest with which they regarded the objects aboutthem. They looked at pictures and remarked upon decorations.One was a man who was unusually well-built. Hewas tall and moved well and had lightly silvered hair; hiscompanion was tall also, but badly hung together, andwalked with a stoop of the shoulders.

Tom walked behind them for some yards before his attentionwas really arrested, but suddenly a movement ofone man’s head seemed to recall some memory of the past.He did not know what the memory was, but he knew vaguelythat it was a memory. He followed a few yards further,wondering idly what had been recalled and why he shouldbe reminded of the mountains and the pine-trees. Yes, itwas the mountains and pine-trees—Hamlin County, but notthe Hamlin County of to-day. Why not the Hamlin Countyof to-day? why something which seemed more remote?Confound the fellow; he had made that movement again.Tom wished he would turn his face that he might see it,and he hurried his footsteps somewhat that he might comewithin nearer range. The two men paused with their backstowards him, and Tom paused also. They were lookingat a picture, and the taller of the two made a gesture withhis hand. It was a long, bony hand, and as he extendedit Tom slightly started. It all came back to him—the memorywhich had been recalled. He smelt the scent of thepines on the hillside; he saw the little crowd of mournersabout the cabin door; inside, women sat with bent heads,upon two wooden chairs rested the ends of a slender coffin,and by it stood a man who lifted his hand and said to thoseabout him: “Let us pray.”

The years swept back as he stood there. He was face toface again with the tragic mystery which had seemed to347end in utter silence. The man turned his face so that itwas plainly to be seen—sallow, rugged, harsh in line. Thesame face, though older, and perhaps less tragic—the faceof the man he had left alone in the awful, desolate stillnessof the empty room.

The next moment he turned away again. He and hiscompanion passed round a corner and were gone. Tommade no attempt to follow them.

“There is no reason why I should,” was his thought,“either for Sheba’s sake or his own. She is happy, andhe feels his secret safe—whatsoever it may have been. Perhapshe has had time to outlive the misery of it, and itwould all be brought to life again.”

But the incident had been a shock. There was nothingto fear from it, he knew; but it had been a shock nevertheless.He did not know the man’s name; he had neverasked it. He was plainly one of the many strangers who,in passing through the Capital, went to visit the public buildings.The merest chance might have brought him to theplace; the most ordinary course of events might take himaway. Tom went back to Dupont Circle in a thoughtfulmood. He forgot the claim and the Senator who had hadno leisure to hear the statement of his case.

Rupert and Sheba were waiting for his return. Ruperthad spent the afternoon searching for employment. Hehad spent many a long day in the same way and with thesame result.

“They don’t want me,” he had said when he came home.“They don’t want me anywhere, it seems—either in lawyers’offices or dry-goods stores. I have not been particular.”

“I sometimes wonder,” said Sheba, “what we shall dowhen all our money is gone—every penny of it. It cannotlast long now. We cannot stay here and we cannot payour way back to the mountains. What shall we do?”

“I shall go out every day till I find something to do,”said Rupert, with the undiscouraged fervour of youth. “Iam not looking for employment for a gentleman, in thesedays; I am looking for work—just as Uncle Matt is.”

“He chopped some wood yesterday and brought hometwo dollars,” Sheba said. “He made me take it. He saidhe wanted to pay his ‘bode.’”

“Don’t be frightened, Sheba,” he said; “don’t be unhappy.Lovely darling, I will take care of you.”

“I know you will,” she said, “and of Uncle Tom, too.I couldn’t be unhappy—we all three love each other so.I do not believe we shall be unhappy, even if we are poorenough to be hungry.”

So their moment of dismay ended in smiles. They werepassing through a phase of life in which it is not easyto be unhappy. Somehow things always brightened whenthey drew near each other. His observation of this truthwas one of Tom’s pleasures. He knew the year of waitinghad managed to fill itself with sweetness for them. Theirhopes had been alternately raised and dashed to earth; oneday it seemed not improbable that they were to be millionaires,the next that beggary awaited them after the dwindlingof their small stock of money; but they had sharedtheir emotions and borne their vicissitudes together.349

“Was it good fortune?” they cried. “Did you see him,Uncle Tom? What did he say?”

He told his story as lightly as possible, but it could notbe transformed, by any lightness of touch, into an encouragingepisode. He made a picture of Stamps sidling throughthe barely opened door, and was terse and witty at theexpense of his own discomfiture and consciousness of incompetence.He laughed at himself and made them laugh,but when he sat down in his accustomed seat there was ashade upon his face.

The children exchanged glances, the eyes of each promptingthe other. They must be at their brightest. Theyknew the sight of their happiness warmed and lightenedhis heart always.

“He is tired and hungry,” Sheba said. “We must givehim a beautiful hot supper. Rupert, we must set the table.”

They had grown used to waiting upon themselves, andtheir domestic services wore more or less the air of festivities.Sheba ran downstairs to Miss Burford’s kitchen, whereUncle Matt had prepared the evening meal in his best manner.As the repasts grew more and more simple, Mattseemed to display greater accomplishments.

“It’s all very well, Miss Sheba,” he had said once, whenshe praised the skill with which he employed his scant resources.“It’s mighty easy to be a good cook when you’segot everythin’ right to han’. The giftness is to git up a finetable when you ain’t got nuffin’. Dat’s whar dish yer niggahlikes to show out. De Lard knows I’se got too much yeredis ve’y minnit—to be a-doin’ credit to my ’sperience—toomuch, Miss Sheba.”350

He was frying hoe-cake and talking to Miss Burford whenSheba came into the kitchen. He was a great comfort andaid to Miss Burford, and in a genteel way the old lady foundhim a resource in the matters of companionship and conversation.Her life was too pinched and narrow to allowher even the simpler pleasure of social intercourse, andMatt’s journeys into the world, and his small adventures,and his comments upon politics and social events were asolace and a source of entertainment to her.

Just now he was describing to her the stories he had heardof a celebrated lecturer who had just arrived in the city.

“Whether he’s a ’vivalist or jes’ a plain preacher whatfolks is runnin’ after, I cayn’t quite make out, ma’am,”he was saying. “I ain’t quite thinkin’ he’s a ’vivalist, butde peoples is a-runnin’ after him shore—an’ seems likedey doin’ it in ev’y city he goes to. Ev’ybody want to heahhim—ev’ybody—rich en pore—young en ole. De Rev’endJohn Baird’s his name, an’ he’s got a fren’ travellin’ withhim as they say is like Jonathan was to David in dese yereole Bible times. An’ I heern tell ev when he rise in depulpit de people’s jest gets so worked up at what he preachto ’em—dey jest cries an’ rocks de benches. Dat’s whatmake me think he might be a ’vivalist—cos we all knowsdat cryin’ an’ rockin’ an’ clappin’ hands is what makes a’vival.” He was full of anecdotes concerning the new arrivalwhose reputation had plainly preceded him.

“He gwine ter preach nex’ Sat’day on ‘’Pentance,’” hesaid to Sheba, with a chuckle. “Dat’s his big lecture ev’ybodywant to hear. De hall shore to be pack full. WhatI’m a-hopin’ is dat it’ll be pack full er Senators an’ memberser Congrest, an’ he’ll set some of ’em a-’pentin’, dey ain’t’tend to dere business an’ git people’s claims through. Ef351I know’d de gen’leman, I’d ax him to menshun dat specialan’ pertickler.”

As they sat at supper, Sheba repeated his stories and comments.All the comments were worthy of repetition, andmost of the anecdotes were suggestively interesting, illustrating,as they did, the power of a single man over many.

“I should like to go and hear him myself,” she said.“Uncle Tom, have you anything to repent? Rupert, haveyou? Uncle Tom, you have not forgotten the Senator.You look at me as if you were thinking of something thatwas not happy.”

“The Senator was not particularly happy,” remarkedTom. “He had just had an interview with Stamps, andhe certainly was not happy at the sight of me. He thoughthe had another on his hands. He’s in better spirits by thistime.”

Sheba got up and went to his side of the table. She puther arms round his neck and pressed her cheek against his.

“I am not remembering him particularly,” said Tom, theshade passing from his eyes; “I am remembering you—asyou were nineteen years ago.”

“Yes,” answered Tom, folding a big arm round her, andspeaking slowly. “I saw a man to-day who reminded meof the day you were born. Are you glad you were born,Sheba? that’s what I want to be sure of.”

The two pairs of young eyes met glowing. Tom knewthey had met, by the warmth of the soft cheek touching him.

“And I—and I,” cried Rupert. He sprung up and held352out an impetuous boyish hand to Tom. “You know howglad, Uncle Tom—look at her—look at me—see how gladwe both are; and it is you—you who have made it so.”

“It’s a pretty big thing,” said Tom, “that two peopleshould be glad they are alive.” And he grasped the ardenthand as affectionately as it was offered.

The Reverend John Baird and his friend the ReverendLucien Latimer were lodged in a quiet house in a quietstreet. The lecturing tour had been fatiguing, and Bairdwas glad of such repose as he could secure. In truth, theexcitement and strain of his work, the journeying fromplace to place, the hospitalities from which he could notescape, had worn upon him. He had grown thinner, andoften did not sleep well at night. He used to find himselflying awake repeating to himself mechanically words fromhis own lecture. “Repentance is too late,” his voice wouldwhisper to the darkness. “Repentance cannot undo.”

His audiences found him an irresistible force. He hadbecome more than the fashion of the hour; he was its passion.People liked to look at as well as to hear him. Hewas besieged by lion-hunters, overwhelmed with attentionsin each town or city he visited. Reporters followed him,interviewers besought appointments, agreeable people invitedhim to their houses, intrusive people dogged him. Latimerstood between him and as many fatigues as he could.He transacted business for him, and interviewed interviewers;and he went to tiring functions.

“When I enter a room without you, and make your excuses,they must make the most of my black face; and theymake the most of it, but they don’t love me,” he said. “Stillit is a thing to be borne if it saves you when you need allyour forces. What does it matter? I have never expectedto be smiled at for my own sake as they smile at me foryours.”354

In these days of close companionship each found in eachnew qualities increasing the tie between them. Latimerfelt himself fed by the public affection surrounding theman who was his friend. He was thrilled by the applausewhich thundered forth at his words; he was moved by themere sense of his success, and the power he saw him unknowinglyexercise through mere physical charm.

“I am nearer being a happy, or at least a peaceful, manthan I had ever thought to be,” he said to Baird; “yourlife seems to fill mine, and I am less lonely.” Which wasindeed a truth.

On the evening of the day on which big Tom had caughthis glimpse of the two strangers in the corridor of the Capitol,Baird dined at the house of the Senator, whose adversemood had promised such small encouragement to the DeWilloughby claim. And in the course of the meal the hostspoke of both claim and claimants.

“The man is a sort of Colossus,” he said, “and he lookedall the heavier and bigger because my last visitor had beenthe smallest and most insignificant of the hoosier type.”

“No. He has lived among the most primitive, and Rutherfordtells me is a sort of county institution; but he is nota hoosier. He has a large, humane, humorous face, anda big, humorous, mellow voice. I should rather have likedthe fellow, confound him, if I hadn’t lost my patience beforehe came into the room.”

“No, I didn’t let him. I was feeling pretty sick ofclaims, and I had no time.”

“Oh, father, I wish you had let him tell it,” exclaimed355the pretty young woman. “The truth is, I am beginningto be interested in that claim myself. I am in love withJudge Rutherford and his stories of Jenny and Tom Scott.His whole soul is bound up in ‘pushing this thing through’—that’swhat he calls it. He is the most delightful lobbyistI ever met. He is like a bull in a china shop—though Idon’t believe anyone ever saw a bull in a china shop.”

“He does not know enough to give his friends a rest,”said the Senator. “If he was not such a good fellow hewould bore a man to death. He bores many a man as it is,and people in office won’t stand being bored. He’s tooingenuous. The shrewd ones say his ingenuousness is toogood to be true. He can’t keep De Willoughby’s virtuesout of his stories of him—and a man’s virtues have nothingmuch to do with his claim.”

“I met him in one of the squares yesterday,” said Mrs.Meredith, “and he almost cried when he spoke of the claim.He told me that everything was going wrong—that it wasbeing pushed aside by all sorts of things, and he had lostheart. His eyes and nose got quite red, and he had to winkhard to keep back the tears.”

“The fellow believes in it, at any rate,” said the Senator;“he has that to support him.”

“He believes in everything,” said Mrs. Meredith, “andit would have touched your heart to hear him talk aboutthe claimants. There is a young nephew and a beautifulgirl creature, who is big Mr. De Willoughby’s adopteddaughter. She is not a claimant, it is true, but they alladore each other, and the nephew is in love with her; andif the claim goes through they will be happy forever afterwards.I saw the nephew once, and he was a beautiful boywith Southern eyes and a charming expression. Upon the356whole, I think I am in love with the young couple, too.Their story sounded like a pastoral poem when Judge Rutherfordtold it.”

“Suppose you tell it to us, Marion,” said the Senator,with a laugh, and a glance round the table. “It may appealto our feelings and advance the interests of theclaim.”

“Pray, tell it, Mrs. Meredith,” Baird put in; “the meremention of it has appealed to my emotions. Perhaps SenatorHarburton and Mr. Lewis will be moved also, and thatwill be two votes to the good—perhaps more.”

“The charm of it is that it is a story without a plot,”Mrs. Meredith said. “There is nothing in it but youthand love and innocence and beauty. It is Romeo and Julietwithout the tragedy. Romeo appeared on a moonlight nightin a garden, and Juliet stood upon a balcony among roses—andtheir young souls cried out to each other. It is all soyoung and innocent—they only want to spend their livestogether, like flowers growing side by side. They wantnothing but each other.”

“They cannot have each other if the claim fails. Theywill have to starve to death in each other’s arms like the‘Babes in the Wood’; I am sure the robins will come andcover them with leaves.”

“Poor fellow,” Mrs. Meredith said. “Judge Rutherfordis finest when he enlarges on him. He says, over and overagain, as if it were a kind of argument, ‘Tom, now—Tom,he wants those two young ones to be happy. He says naturefixed it all for them, so that they could be happy—and hedoesn’t want to see it spoiled. He says love ain’t treated357fair, as a rule, and he wants to see it given a show—a realshow.’”

At least one pair of deeply interested listener’s eyes werefixed upon her. They were the Reverend John Baird’s.

“It might be a beautiful thing to see,” he said. “Onedoes not see it. There seems a fate against it. The wrongpeople meet, or the right ones do not until it is too late.”

“I should like to see it myself,” said the host, “but I amafraid that the argument—as an argument—would not supporta claim on the Government.”

“I am going to see the claimants and hear all the argumentsthey can bring forward,” was Mrs. Meredith’s conclusion.“I want to see Romeo and Juliet together.”

Latimer had not come in when he returned to their lodgings.He also had been out to spend the evening. Butit was not many minutes before Baird heard his latch-keyand the opening of the front door. He came upstairs ratherslowly.

“You are either ill,” Baird said, when he entered, “oryou have met with some shock.”

“Yes; it was a shock,” was the answer. “I have beendragged back into the black pit of twenty years ago.”

“I have seen the man who—was with us in the hillsidecabin, through that night she died. He passed me in thestreet.”

“He is such a noticeable looking fellow,” Latimer wenton, “that I felt sure I could find out who he was. In themountains they called him ‘Big Tom D‘Willerby.’ His358real name is De Willoughby, and he has been here for somemonths in pursuit of a claim, which is a great deal talkedabout.”

“The great De Willoughby claim?” said Baird. “Theytalked of it to-night at dinner.”

“He may be living within a hundred yards of us—withina hundred yards,” he said. “We may cross each other’spath at any moment. I can at least know—since fate hasbrought us together again—I should never have sought himout—but one can know whether—whetherit lived or died.”

“He has with him,” said Baird, “a girl of nineteen whois his adopted daughter. I heard it to-night. She is saidto be a lovely girl who is in love with a lovely boy who isDe Willoughby’s nephew. She is happy.”

“She is happy,” murmured Latimer, biting his livid lips.He could not bring himself back to the hour he was livingin. He could only see again the bare little room—he couldhear the cries of terrified anguish. “It seems strange,” hemurmured, “that Margery’s child should be happy.”

It was not difficult to discover the abiding place of theDe Willoughby claimants. The time had come when therewere few who did not know who occupied the upper floorof Miss Burford’s house near the Circle. Miss Burfordherself had gradually become rather proud of her boarders,and, as the interest in the case increased, felt herself becominga prominent person.

“If the claim goes through, the De Willoughby familywill be very wealthy,” she said, genteelly. “They will returnto their Southern home, no doubt, and restore it to itsfawmah magnificence. Mr. Rupert De Willoughby willbe lawd of the mannah.”

She spent many hours—which she felt to be very aristocratic—inlistening to Uncle Matt’s stories of the “old DeWilloughby place,” the rice-fields in “South Ca’llina,” andthe “thousands of acres of gol’ mines” in the mountains.There was a rich consolation in mere conversation on thesubject of glories which had once had veritable substance,and whose magnitude might absolutely increase if fortunewas kind. But it was not through inquiry that Latimerdiscovered the whereabouts of the man who shared hissecret. In two days’ time they met face to face on the stepsof the Capitol.

Latimer was going down them; big Tom was coming up.The latter was lost in thought on his affairs, and was notlooking at such of his fellow-men as passed him. Suddenlyhe found himself one or two steps below someone who heldout a hand and spoke in a low voice.360

“De Willoughby!” the stranger exclaimed, and Tomlifted his eyes and looked straight into those of the manhe had seen last nineteen years before in the cabin atBlair’s Hollow.

“Do you know me again?” the man asked. “It’s a goodmany years since we met, and I am not as easy to recogniseas you.”

“Yes, I know you,” answered big Tom, grasping the outstretchedhand kindly. “I saw you a few days ago andknew you.”

“No,” answered Tom, slowly; “I thought it over whileI walked behind you, and I made up my mind that it mightdo you no good—and to hold back would do none of usany harm.”

“Since you spoke to me of your own free will,” he said,“let’s go and have a talk. There are plenty of quiet cornersin this place.”

There were seats which were secluded enough, thoughpeople passed and repassed within sight of them. Peopleoften chose such spots to sit and talk together. Onesaw pairs of lovers, pairs of politicians, couples of sightseers.

They found such a seat and sat down. Latimer couldnot well control the expression his face wore.

“She is a beautiful young woman, though she will alwaysseem more or less of a child to me,” he said. “I have kept361her safe and I’ve made her happy. That was what I meantto do. I don’t believe she has had a sad hour in her life.What I’m sick of is seeing people unhappy. I’ve kept unhappinessfrom her. We’ve loved each other—that’s whatwe’ve done. She’s known nothing but having people aboutwho were fond of her. They were a simple, ignorant lotof mountain hoosiers, but, Lord! they loved her and sheloved them. She’s enjoyed the spring, and she’s enjoyedthe summer, and she’s enjoyed the autumn and the winter.The rainy days haven’t made her feel dull, and the coldones haven’t made her shiver. That’s the way she has grownup—just like a pretty fawn or a forest tree. Now her youngmate has come, and the pair of them fell deep in love atsight. They met at the right time and they were the rightpair. It was all so natural that she didn’t know she wasin love at first. She only knew she was happier everyday. I knew what was the matter, and it made me happyjust to look on. Good lord!how they love each other—thosechildren. How they look at each other every minutewithout knowing they are doing it; and how they smilewhen their eyes meet—without knowing why. I know why.It’s because they are in paradise—and God knows if it’sto be done I’m going to keep them there.”

“My God!” broke from Latimer. “What a heart youhave, man!” He turned his face to look at him almostas if in reverent awe. “Margery’s child! Margery’s child!”he repeated to himself. “Is she like her mother?” heasked.

“I never saw her mother—when she was happy,” Tomanswered. “She is taller than her mother and has eyeslike a summer morning sky. It’s a wonderful face. Isometimes think she must be like—the other.”362

“I want to see her,” said Latimer. “She need knownothing about me. I want to see her. May I?”

“Yes. We are staying here to push our claim, and weare living near Dupont Circle, and doing it as cheaply as wecan. We haven’t a cent to spare, but that hasn’t hurt usso far. If we win our claim we shall be bloated bondholders;if we lose it, we shall have to tramp back to the mountainsand build a log hut, and live on nuts and berries until wecan raise a crop. The two young ones will set up a nestof their own and live like Adam and Eve—and I swearthey won’t mind it. They’d be happy rich, but they’ll behappy poor. When would you like to come and see her?”

“May I come to-morrow?” asked Latimer. “And mayI bring a friend with me? He is the human being who isnearest to me on earth. He is the only living soul whoknows—what we know. He is the Reverend John Baird.”

“What!” said Tom. “The man who is setting the worldon fire with his lectures—the ‘Repentance’ man?”

“She’ll like to see him. No one better. We shall alllike to see him. We have heard a great deal of him.”

They did not part for half an hour. When they didLatimer knew a great deal of the past. He knew the storyof the child’s up-growing, with the sun rising from behindone mountain and setting behind another; he seemed toknow the people who had loved and been familiar with herthroughout her childish and girlish years; he knew of thefanciful name given her in infancy, and of the more fancifulone her primitive friends and playmates had adopted. Heknew the story of Rupert, and guessed vaguely at the farpast in which Delia Vanuxem had lived and died.

“Thank God I saw you that day!” he said. “Thank363God I went to you that night!” And they grasped handsagain and went their separate ways.

Latimer went home and told Baird of the meeting andof the appointment for the following day.

“I felt that you would like to see the man,” he said.“He is the finest, simple being in the world. Soul and bodyare on a like scale.”

“You were right in thinking I should like to see him,”answered Baird. “I have thought of him often.” Heregarded his friend with some anxiety.

“To meet her face to face will be a strange thing,” headded. “Do you think you can hide what you must feel?It will not be easy—even for me.”

“It will not be easy for either of us—if she looks at uswith Margery’s eyes. You will know them. Margery washappy, too, when the picture you have seen was made.”

That—to see her stand before them in her youth andbeauty, all unknowing—would be a strange thing, was thethought in the mind of each as they walked through thestreets together, the next evening. The flare of an occasionalstreet-lamp falling on Latimer’s face revealed all itsstory to his companion, though it might not have so revealeditself to another. Baird himself was wondering how theyshould each bear themselves throughout the meeting. Shewould be so wholly unconscious—this girl who had alwaysbeen happy and knew nothing of the past. To her theywould be but a middle-aged popular lecturer and his unattractive-lookingfriend—while each to himself was a manconcealing from her a secret. They must eliminate it fromtheir looks, their voices, their air. They must be frankand courteous and conventional. Baird turned it all over364in his mind. When they reached the house the second-storywindows were lighted as if to welcome them. Matt openedthe door for them, attired in his best and bowing low. Toreceive such guests he felt to be an important social event,which seemed to increase the chances of the claim and pointto a future when distinguished visitors would throng to amuch more imposing front door. He announced, with anair of state, that his master and young mistress were “receivin’,”and took ceremonious charge of the callers. Hehad brushed his threadbare coat and polished each brassbutton singly until it shone. An African imagination aidedhim to feel the dignity of hospitality.

The sound of a girl’s voice reached them as they wentupstairs. They glanced at each other involuntarily, andLatimer’s breath was sharply drawn. It was not the bestpreparation for calmness.

A glowing small fire was burning in the stove, and, plainand bare as the room was, it was filled with the effect ofbrightness. Two beautiful young people were laughingtogether over a book, and both rose and turned eager facestowards the door. Big Tom rose, too, and, advancing tomeet the visitors, brought the girl with him.

She was built on long and supple lines, and had happyeyes and lovely bloom. The happy eyes were Margery’s,though they were brown instead of harebell blue, and lookedout from a face which was not quite Margery’s, though itssmile was hers. Latimer asked himself if it was possiblethat his manner wore the aspect of ordinary calm as he stoodbefore her.

Sheba wondered at the coldness of his hand as she took it.She was not attracted by his anxious face, and it must beconfessed that his personality produced on her the effect365it frequently produced on those meeting him for the firsttime. It was not he who was the great man, but she felttimid before him when he spoke to her.

No one was shy of Baird. He produced his inevitableeffect also. In a few minutes he had become the centreof the small company. He had made friends with Rupert,and launched Tom in conversation. Sheba was listeningto him with a brightness of look charming to behold.

They sat about the table and talked, and he led themall back to the mountains which had been seeming so faraway. He wanted to hear of the atmosphere, the life, thepeople; and yet, as they answered his queries and relatedanecdotes, he was learning from each one something bearingon the story of the claim. When Tom spoke of Barnesvilleand Judge Rutherford, or Rupert of Delisleville and Matt,their conversation was guided in such manner that businessdetails of the claim were part of what was said. It wasTom who realised this first and spoke of it.

“We are talking of our own business as if it was theone subject on earth,” he said. “That’s the worst of peoplewith a claim. I’ve seen a good many of them since I’vebeen in Washington—and we are all alike.”

“I have been asking questions because the subject interestsme, too,” said Baird. “More people than yourselvesdiscuss it. It formed a chief topic of conversation whenI dined with Senator Milner, two nights ago.”

“Milner!” said Tom. “He was the man who had nottime to hear me in the morning.”

“His daughter, Mrs. Meredith, was inquiring about you.She wanted to hear the story. I shall tell it to her.”

“Perhaps,” Baird laughed. “I may be able to help you.A man who is used to audiences might be of some practicalvalue.”

“They care a great deal more than they will admit tome,” she said to him, when chance left them together a fewminutes later, as Tom and Rupert were showing Latimersome books. “They are afraid of making me unhappy byletting me know how serious it will be if everything is lost.They care too much for me—but I care for them, and ifI could do anything—or go to anyone——”

“It was not all jest,” he said after it, “what I said justnow. I am a man who has words, and words sometimes areof use. I am going to give you my words—for what theyare worth.”

“We shall feel very rich,” she answered, and her simpledirectness might have been addressed to a friend of years’standing. It was a great charm, this sweet acceptance ofany kindness. “But I thought you were going away ina few days?”

“Yes. But I shall come back, and I shall try to setthe ball rolling before I go.”

“Mr. Latimer—” she hesitated; “do you think he doesnot mind that—that the claim means so much for us? Iwas afraid. He looked at me so seriously——”

“He looked at you a great deal,” interposed Baird,quickly. “He could not help it. I am glad to have thisopportunity to tell you—something. You are very367like—very like—someone he loved deeply—someone who diedyears ago. You must forgive him. It was almost a shock tohim to come face to face with you.”

“Ah!” softly. “Someone who died years ago!” Shelifted Margery’s eyes and let them rest upon Baird’s face.“It must be very strange—it must be almost awful—to findyourself near a person very like someone you have loved—whodied years ago.”

When the two men walked home together through thestreets, the same thought was expressed again, and it wasLatimer who expressed it.

“And when she looked at me,” he said, “I almost criedout to her, ‘Margery, Margery!’ The cry leaped up fromthe depths of me. I don’t know how I stopped it. Margerywas smaller and more childlike—her eyes are darker, herface is her own, not Margery’s—but she looks at one asMargery did. It is the simple clearness of her look, thesweet belief, which does not know life holds a creature whocould betray it.”

“The passing of years,” he said, “almost inevitably wipesout or dims all things; but sometimes—not often, thankFate—there comes a phase of suffering in some man orwoman’s life which will not go. I once knew a woman—shewas the kind of woman people envy, and whose lifeseems brilliant and full; it was full of the things mostpeople want, but the things she wanted were not for her,368and there was a black wound in her soul. She had hada child who had come near to healing her, and suddenlyhe was torn out of her being by death. She said afterwardsthat she knew she had been mad for months afterit happened, though no one suspected her. In the yearsthat followed she dared not allow herself to speak or thinkof that time of death. ‘I must not let myself—I must not.’She said this to me, and shuddered, clenching her handswhen she spoke. ‘Never, never, never, will it be better.If a thousand years had passed it would always be the same.One thought or word of it drags me back—and plungesme deep into the old, awful woe. Old—it is not old—itnever can be old. It is as if it had happened yesterday—asif it were happening to-day.’ I know this is not oftenso. But it is so with me when a thing drags Margery backto me—drags me back to Margery. To-night, Baird; thinkwhat it is to-night!”

He put a shaking hand on Baird’s hand, hurrying himby the unconscious rapidity of his own pace.

“Think what it is to-night,” he repeated. “She seemspart of my being. I cannot free myself. I can see heras she was when she last looked at me, as her child lookedat me to-night—with joyful bright eyes and lips. It wasone day when I went to see her at Boston. She was doinga little picture, and it had been praised at the studio. Shewas so happy—so happy. That was the last time.”

“I am not calling it back. It comes, it comes! You mustlet me go on. You can’t stop me. That was the last time.The next time I saw her she had changed. I scarcely knewhow—it was so little. The brightness was blurred. Then—thencomes all the rest. Her growing illness—the anxiousness—the369long days—the girl at the mills—the talkof those women—the first ghastly, damnable fear—thenights—the lying awake!” His breath came short and fast.He could not stop himself, it was plain. His words tumbledover each other as if he were a man telling a story in delirium.

“I can see her,” he said. “I can see her—as I went intoher room. I can see her shaking hands and lips and childish,terrified eyes. I can feel her convulsive little fingers clutchingmy feet, and her face—her face—lying upon them whenshe fell down.”

“I cannot bear it,” cried Baird; “I cannot bear it.” Hehad uttered the same cry once before. He had receivedthe same answer.

“She bore it,” said Latimer, fiercely. “That last night—inthe cabin on the hillside—her cries—they were nothuman—no, they did not sound human——”

He was checked. It was Baird’s hand which clutchedhis arm now—it seemed as if for support. The man wasswaying a little, and in the light of a street-lamp near themhe looked up in a ghastly appeal.

“Latimer,” he said. “Don’t go on; you see I can’t bearit. I am not so strong as I was—before I began this work.I have lost my nerve. You bring it before me as it isbrought before yourself. I am living the thing. I can’tbear it.”

Latimer came back from the past. He made an effortto understand and control himself.

“Yes,” he said, quite dull; “that was what the womanI spoke of told me—that she lived the thing again. It isnot sane to let one’s self go back. I beg your pardon, Baird.”

“It’s a curious job, that De Willoughby claim,” was saidin a committee-room of the House, one day. “It’s beginningto attract attention because it has such an innocent air.The sharp ones say that may be the worst feature of it,because ingenuousness is more dangerous than anythingelse if a job is thoroughly rotten. The claimants are themost straightforward pair the place has ever seen—a big,humourous, well-mannered country man, and a boy oftwenty-three. Rutherford, of Hamlin County, who is amonument of simplicity in himself, is heart and soul in thething—and Farquhar feels convinced by it. Farquhar isone of the men who are not mixed up with jobs. Milnerhimself is beginning to give the matter a glance now andthen, though he has not committed himself; and now theReverend John Baird, the hero of the platform, is takingit up.”

Baird had proved his incidental offer of aid to have beenby no means an idle one. He had been obliged to absenthimself from Washington for a period, but he had returnedwhen his lecture tour had ended, and had shown himselfable in a new way. He was the kind of man whose conversationpeople wish to hear. He chose the right peopleand talked to them about the De Willoughby claim. Hewas interesting and picturesque in connection with it, andlent the topic attractions. Tom had been shrewdly rightin saying that his talk of it would give it a chance.

He went often to the house near the Circle. Latimer371did not go with him, and had himself explained his reasonsto big Tom.

“I have seen her,” he said. “It is better that I shouldnot see her often. She is too much like her mother.”

But Baird seemed to become by degrees one of the household.Gradually—and it did not take long—Tom and hewere familiar friends. They had long talks together, theywalked side by side through the streets, they went in companyto see the men it was necessary to hold interviewswith. Their acquaintance became an intimacy which establisheditself with curious naturalness. It was as if they hadbeen men of the same blood, who, having spent their livesapart, on meeting, found pleasure in the discovery of theirrelationship. The truth was that for the first time in hislife big Tom enjoyed a friendship with a man who waseducated and, in a measure, of the world into which hehimself had been born. Baird’s world had been that of NewEngland, his own, the world of the South; but they couldcomprehend each other’s parallels and precedents, and arguefrom somewhat similar planes. In the Delisleville days Tomhad formed no intimacies, and had been a sort of Colossusset apart; in the mountains of North Carolina he had consortedwith the primitive and uneducated in good-humoured,even grateful, friendliness; but he had mentally lived likea hermit. To have talked to Jabe Doty or Nath Hayeson any other subjects than those of crops and mountainpolitics or sermons would have been to bewilder them hopelessly.To find himself in mental contact with a man whohad lived and thought through all the years during whichhe himself had vegetated at the Cross-roads, was a wonderfulthing to him. He realised that he had long ago given upexpecting anything approaching such companionship, and372that to indulge in it was to live in a new world. Baird’svoice, his choice of words, his readiness and tact, the verycarriage of his fine, silvering head, produced on him theeffect of belonging to a new species of human being.

“You are all the things I have been missing for halfa lifetime,” he said. “I didn’t know what it was I wasmaking up my mind to going without—but it was suchmen as you.”

On his own part, Baird felt he had made a rich discoveryalso. The large humour and sweetness, the straightforwardunworldliness which was still level-headed and observing,the broad kindliness and belief in humanity which wereso far from unintelligent or injudicious, were more attractiveto him than any collected characteristics he had metbefore. They seemed to meet some strained needs in him.To leave his own rooms, and find his way to the house whoseatmosphere was of such curious, homely brightness, to begreeted by Sheba’s welcoming eyes, to sit and chat withTom in the twilight or to saunter out with him with anarm through his, were things he soon began to look forwardto. He began also to realise that this life of home and theaffections was a thing he had lived without. During hisbrief and wholly unemotional married life he had knownnothing like it. His years of widowerhood had been presidedover by Mrs. Stornaway, who had assumed the supervisionof his child as a duty. Annie had been a properly behaved,rather uninteresting and unresponsive little person. Shehad neat features and a realisation of the importance of respectabilityand the proprieties which was a credit to Willowfieldand her training. She was never gay or inconsequentor young. She had gone to school, she had had herfrocks lengthened and been introduced at tea-parties, exactly373as had been planned for her. She never committeda breach of discretion and she never formed in any degreean element of special interest. She greatly respected herfather’s position as a successful man, and left it to bevaguely due to the approbation of Willowfield.

Big Tom De Willoughby, in two wooden rooms behinda cross-roads store, in a small frame house kept in orderby a negro woman, and in the genteel poverty of Miss Burford’ssecond floor, had surrounded himself with the comfortsand pleasures of the affections. It was not possibleto enter the place without feeling their warmth, and Bairdfound himself nourished by it. He saw that Rupert, too,was nourished by it. His young good looks and manhoodwere developing under its influence day by day. He seemedto grow taller and stronger. Baird had made friends withhim, too, and was with them the night he came in to announcethat at last he had got work to do.

“It is to sell things from behind a counter,” he said,and he went to Sheba and lifted her hand to his lips, kissingit before them all. “We know a better man who has doneit.”

“You know a bigger man who has done it,” said Tom.“He did it because he was cut out for a failure. You aredoing it because you are cut out for a success. It will bea good story for the reporters when the claim goes through,my boy.”

Baird perceived at once that it was a good story, evenat this particular period—a story which might be likely toarouse curiosity and interest at a time when the awakeningof such emotions was of the greatest value. He told it atthe house of a magnate of the Supreme Court, the nextnight. He had a varied and useful audience of important374politicians and their wives and daughters, the latter speciallyfitted to act as mediums of transmission to other audiences.He told the anecdote well. It was a good picture,that of the room on Miss Burford’s upper floor, the largeclaimant smiling like a benign Jove, and the handsomeyoungster bending his head to kiss the girlish hand as ifhe were doing homage to a queen.

“I think his feeling was that his failure to get a betterthing was a kind of indignity done her,” Baird explained.“He comes of a race of men who have worshipped womenand beauty in a romantic, troubadour fashion; only thehigher professions, and those treated in a patrician, amateurstyle, were possible to them as work. And yet, as he said,a better man than himself had done this same thing. Whatmoves one is that he has gone out to find work as if he hadbeen born a bricklayer. He tells me they are reaching theend of all they depend on.”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Senator Milner to his daughter,a few days afterwards; “this is going to be a feminineclaim. There was a time when I swore I wouldn’t touch it,but I foresee what is going to happen. I’m going to givein, and the other opposers are going to give in, and in theend the Government will give in. And it will be principallybecause a force of wives and daughters has marshalled itselfto march to the rescue. No one ever realises what a powerthe American woman is, and how much she is equal to accomplishing.If she took as much interest in politics asEnglish women do, she would elect every president andcontrol every party. We are a good-natured lot, and weare fond of our womenkind and believe in them much morethan other nations do. They’re pretty clever and straight,you know, as well as being attractive, and we can’t help375realising that they are often worth listening to. So welisten, and when they drive a truth home we are willingto believe in it. If the feminine halves of the two Housesdecide that the De Willoughby claim is all right, they’llprove it to us, and there you are.”

“I believe we can prove it to you,” answered Mrs. Meredith.“I went to see the people, and you could proveanything straightforward by merely showing them to theHouses in session. They could not conceal a disingenuousthought among them—the delightful giant, the boy withthe eyelashes, the radiant girl, and the old black man puttogether.”

In the meantime Judge Rutherford did his honest best.He had been too sanguine not to do it with some ruefulnessafter the first few months. During the passage of these fewmonths many of his ingenuous ideals had been overthrown.It had been borne in upon him that honest virtue was notso powerful a factor as he had believed. The obstacles continuallyarising in his pathway were not such as honestvirtue could remove. The facts that the claim was “asstraight as a string,” and that big Tom De Willoughby wasthe best fellow in Hamlin were bewilderingly ineffective.When prospects seemed to shine they might be suddenlyovershadowed by the fact that a man whose influence wasneeded, required it to use for himself in other quarters;when all promised well some apparently unexplainableobstacle brought things to a standstill.

“Now you see it and now you don’t,” said Tom, resignedly.“That’s the position. This sort of thing mightgo on for twenty years.”

He was not aware that he spoke prophetically; yet claimsresting on as solid a basis as his own passed through the376same dragging processes for thirty years before they werefinally settled. But such did not possess the elements ofunprofessional picturesqueness this particular one presentedtold to its upholders and opposers.

Uncle Matt himself was to be counted among these elements.He had made himself as familiar and popular afigure in the public places of the Capital as he had beenin Delisleville. He made friends in the market-house andon the steps of the Capitol and the Treasury and the PensionOffice; he hung about official buildings and obtained oddjobs of work, his grey wool, his polished air of respectfulness,his readiness and amiability attracted attention and pleasedthose who came in contact with him. People talked to himand asked him friendly questions, and when they did sothe reason for his presence in Washington and the importanceof the matter which had brought his young masterto the seat of government were fully explained.

“I belongs to de gen’elmen dat’s here tendin’ to de DeWilloughby claim, sah,” he would say. “Co’se, sah, you’veheern ’bout it up to de Capitol. I’se yere waitin’ on MarseRupert De Willoughby, but co’se he don’ live yere—tillye gets his claim through—like he do in de ole familymansh’n at Delisleville—an’ my time hangs heavy on myhan’s, cos I got so much ledger—so I comes out like dishyer—an’ takes a odd job now an’ agen.”

It was not long before he was known as the De Willoughbyclaimant, and loiterers were fond of drawing himout on the subject of the “gol’ mines.” He gathered alarge amount of information on the subjects of claims andthe rapid methods of working them. He used to come toTom sometimes, hot and excited with his struggles to comprehend377detail. “What all dish yer ’bout Marse Rupert’sgranpa‘n’ bein’ destructively disloyal? Dar warn’t no disloyal’bout it. Ef dar was a fault to be foun’ with the oldJudge it was dat he was mos’ too loyal. He couldn’ hol’in, an’ he qu’ol with mos’ ev’y gen’elman he talk to. Hepass shots with one or two he had a disagreement with.He pass shots with ’em. How’s de Guv’ment gwine calla gen’elman ‘destructively disloyal’ when he ready anyminit to pass shots with his bes’ fren’s, ef dey don’ ’greewith his pol’tics—an’ his pol’tics is on de side er MarseAb’am Lincoln an’ de Yankees?”

The phrase “constructively disloyal” rankled in his soul.He argued about it upon every possible occasion, and feltthat if the accusation could be disproved the De Willoughbycase would be triumphantly concluded, which was in a largemeasure true.

“I steddies ’bout dat thing day an’ night,” he said toSheba. “Seems like dar oughter be someone to tes’ify. EfI had de money to travel back to Delisleville, I’d go an’try to hunt someone up.”

He was seated upon the steps of a Government buildingone afternoon, discussing his favourite subject with someof his coloured friends. He had been unusually eloquent,and had worked himself up to a peroration, when he suddenlyceased speaking and stared straight across the streetto the opposite side of the pavement, in such absorption thathe forgot to close his mouth.

He was gazing at an elderly gentleman with a hook noseand the dashing hat of the broad brim, which was regardedas being almost as much an insignia of the South as thebonnie blue flag itself.

Uncle Matt got up and shuffled across the street. He378had become unconsciously apish with excitement. His oldblack face worked and his hands twitched.

He was so far out of breath when he reached the stranger’sside that he could scarcely make himself heard, as, pullinghis hat off, he cried, agitatedly:

The stranger did not hear him distinctly, and waved himoff, evidently taking him for a beggar.

Uncle Matt found some of his breath, though not enoughto steady his voice. But his strenuousness was almost passionate.“Doctah Williams Atkinson,” he said, “I ain’tbeggin’, Doctah Atkinson, sah; on’y axin’ if I might speaka few words to you, sah!” His shrewd insistance on thename was effective.

“How do you know me?” he said. “This is the firsttime I have been in Washington—and I’ve not been herean hour.”

“I knowed you, Doctah Atkinson, sah, in Delisleville,Delisle County. Ev’ybody knowed you, Doctah! I wasdar endurin’ er de war. I was dar de time you—you an’Judge De Willoughby passed shots ’bout dat Confed’ateflag.”

“What do you want?” said Dr. Atkinson, somewhat unsmilingly.These were days when stories of the Confederateflag were generally avoided. Northerners called it the rebelflag.

Matt had had the discretion to avoid this mistake. He379was wild with anxious excitement. Suddenly here had appeareda man who could give all the evidence desired, if hewould do so. He had left Delisleville immediately on theclose of the war and had not been heard of. He might, likeso many, be passing on to some unknown point, and remainin the city only between trains. There was no time to findany better qualified person than himself to attend to thismatter. It must be attended to upon the spot and at thismoment. Uncle Matt knew all the incongruities of thesituation. No one could have known them better. Buta sort of hysteric courage grew out of his desperation.

“Doctah Williams Atkinson, sah!” he said. “May Itake de liberty of walking jes’ behin’ you an’ axin’ you aquestion. I mustn’t keep you standin’. I beg you to ’scuseme, sah. I kin talk an’ walk at de same time.”

Dr. Williams Atkinson was an amenable person, andMatt’s imploring old darky countenance was not without itspathos. He was so evidently racked by his emotions.

Matt stood uncovered and spoke fast. The hand holdinghis hat was shaking, as also was his voice.

“I’m nothin’ but a ole niggah man, Doctah Atkinson,sah,” he said. “It ain’t for myself I’se intrudin’ on ye;it’s cos dar wasn’t time to go fer Marse De Willoughbythat could talk it like it oughter be. I jes’ had to pushmy ole niggah self in, fear you’d be gone an’ we’d nevahset eyes on you agin.”

“Walk along by me,” said the Doctor. “What about theDe Willoughbys; I thought they were all dead.”

“All but Marse Thomas and Marse Rupert. Dey’s yere’tendin’ to de claim. Has you done heern ’bout de claim,Doctah Atkinson?”380

Whereupon Matt plunged into the story of the “gol’mines,” and the difficulties which had presented themselvesin the pathway of the claimant, and the necessity for theproduction of testimony which would disprove the chargeof disloyalty. The detail was not very clear, but it had theeffect of carrying Dr. Williams Atkinson back to certaingood old days in Delisleville, before his beloved South hadbeen laid low and he had been driven far afield to liveamong strangers, an alien. For that reason he found himselfmoved by the recital and listened to it to its end.

“When I seed you, sah,” Uncle Matt explained, “it allcome back to me in a minnit, how you an’ de Judge passshots ’bout dat flag; how you axed him to a dinner-party,an’ dar was a Confed’ate officer dar—an’ a Confed’ate flaghung up over de table, an’ de Judge when he seed it he’fused p’int blank to set down to de table, an’ it endedin you goin’ out in de gyardin’ an’ changin’ shots.”

“Yes, damn it all,” cried Dr. Atkinson, but melted thenext moment. “The poor old fellow is dead,” he said, “an’he died in disgrace and without friends.”

“Yes,” Uncle Matt protested, eagerly; “without a singlefriend, an’ all ’lone ’ceptin’ of Marse Rupert—all ’lone.An’ it was ’cos he was so strong for de Union—an’ nowde Guv’ment won’t let his fambly have his money ’cos dey’stryin’ to prove him destructively disloyal—when he changedshots with his bes’ friend ’cos he wouldn’t set under deConfed’ate flag.”

“What!” he said; “do you want me to explain to theGovernment that the old scamp would have blown my brainsout if he could?”

“Doctah Atkinson, sah,” said Uncle Matt, with shrewdgravity, “things is diff’rent dese days, an’ de Guv’ment don’tcall dem gen’elmen scamps as was called dat in de Souf.”

He looked up under the broad brim of his companion’shat with impassioned appealing.

“I jes’ ’member one thing, sah,” he said; “dat you wasa Southern gen’elman, and when a enemy’s dead a Southerngen’elman don’t cherish no harm agin him, an’ you straightfrom Delisleville, an’ you deed an’ heerd it all, an’ de Guv’mentken see plain enough you’s no carpet-bag jobber, an’ef a gen’elman like you tes’ify, an’ say you was enemies—an’you did pass shots count er dat flag, how’s dey gwinetalk any more about dis destructive disloyal business? Howdey gwine ter do it?”

“And I am to be the means of enriching his family—thefamily of an obstinate old fool, who abused me likea pickpocket and spoiled a dress-coat for me when dress-coatswere scarce.”

“He’s dead, Doctah Williams Atkinson, sah, he’s dead,”said Matt. “It was mighty lonesome the way he died, too,in dat big house, dat was stripped by de soldiers, an’ ev’ybodydead belonging to him—Miss De Willoughby, an’ deyoung ladies, an’ Marse Romaine, an’ Marse De Courcy—noone lef but dat boy. It was mighty lonesome, sah.”

“Yes, that’s so,” said Dr. Atkinson, reflectively. Aftera few moments’ silence, he added, “Whom do you wantme to tell this to? It may be very little use, but it mayserve as evidence.”

“Would you let me ’scort you to Senator Milner, sah?”he said, in absolute terror at his own daring. “Would you’low me to ’tend you to Senator Grove? I knows what afavior I’se axin’. I knows it doun to de groun’. I scarcelydars’t to ax it, but if I loses you, sah, Marse Thomas DeWilloughby an’ Marse Rupert may lose de claim. Ef I loseyou, sah, seems mos’ like I gwine to lose my mind.”

There were a thousand chances to one that Senator Milnermight not be where Uncle Matt hoped to find him;there were ten thousand chances to one that he might beabsorbingly engaged; there were uncountable chancesagainst them obtaining an interview with either man, andyet it so happened they had the curious good luck to comeupon Senator Milner absolutely without searching for him.It was rather he who came upon them at one of the entrancesof the Capitol itself, before which stood his daughter’s carriage.Mrs. Meredith had spent the morning in the Senate,being interested in the subject under debate. She was goingto take her father home to lunch, and as she was about toenter her carriage her glance fell upon the approaching figuresof Uncle Matt and his companion.

“Father,” she said, “there is the faithful retainer ofthe De Willoughby claimants, and there is not a shadow ofa doubt that he is in search of you. I am convinced thathe wishes to present that tall Southerner under the big hat.”

In a moment’s space Uncle Matt was before them. Thedeprecatory respect implied by his genuflections couldscarcely be computed.

“Senator Milner, sah,” he said, “Doctah Williams Atkinsonof Delisleville has had de kindness to say he do mede favior to come yeah, sah, to tes’ify, sah——”383

The large hat was removed by its owner with a fine sweep.“The old fellow thinks I can do his people a service, Senator,”explained Dr. Atkinson. “He is the servant of theDe Willoughby claimants, and it seems there has been somequestion of Judge De Willoughby’s loyalty. During thewar, sir, he was called disloyal by his neighbours, and wasa much hated man.”

Uncle Matt’s lips were trembling. He broke forth, forgettingthe careful training of his youth.

“Dar wasn’t a gen’elman in de county,” he cried, “darwasn’t a gen’elman in de State, mo’ hated an’ ’spised an’mo’ looked down on.”

The lean Southerner nodded acquiescently. “That’strue,” he said. “It’s quite true. He was a copperhead anda firebrand. We detested him. He insulted me at my owntable by refusing to sit down under the Southern flag, andthe matter ended with pistols.”

“This is interesting, by Jove,” said the Senator, and helooked from Uncle Matt to his capture. “I should liketo hear more of it.”

“Will you confer a pleasure on me by coming home tolunch with us?” said Mrs. Meredith, who had begun tolook radiant. “I am interested in the De Willoughby claim;I would give a great deal to see my father entirely convinced.He has been on the verge of conviction for sometime. I want him to hear the story with all the details.I beg you will let us take you home with us, Dr. Atkinson.”

“Madame,” replied Dr. Williams Atkinson, with aneighteenth century obeisance, “Judge De Willoughby andI lived in open feud, but I am becoming interested in theDe Willoughby claim also. I accept your invitation withpleasure.” And they drove away together.

“There is a man who seems to have begun to hauntmy pathway,” Baird said to Tom; “or perhaps it is Latimer’spathway, for it is when Latimer is with me that Imeet him. He is small and sharp-featured and unwholesome.”

He related the story of Stamps and his herds. The herdshad not gained the congressional ear as Mr. Stamps hadhoped. He had described their value and the gravity ofhis loss to everyone who would listen to his eloquence, butthe result had been painfully discouraging. His boarding-househad become a cheaper one week by week, and his bluejeans had grown shabbier. He had fallen into the habit ofhanging about the entrances of public buildings and thestreet corners in the hope of finding hearers and sympathisers.His sharp little face had become haggard and moreweasel-like than before. Baird recognised big Tom’s descriptionof him at once.

“Yes, it must be Stamps,” he said. “What is the meaningof his interest in us? Does he think we can provideevidence to prove the value of the herds? What are youthinking of, De Willoughby?”

In fact, there had suddenly recurred to Tom’s mind arecollection of Sheba’s fifth birthday and the visit Mr.Stamps had made him. With something of a shock he recalledthe shrewd meekness of his voice as he made hisexit.385

The need of money was merely the natural expressionof Mr. Stamps’s nature. He had needed money when he wasborn, and had laid infant schemes to secure cents from hisrelatives and their neighbours before he was four years old.But he had never needed it as he did now. The claim forgovernmental restitution of the value of the daily increasingherds had become the centre of his being. His belief intheir existence and destruction was in these days profound;his belief that he should finally be remunerated in the nameand by the hand of national justice was the breath of lifeto him. He had at last found a claim agent whose characteristicswere similar to his own, and, so long as he was ableto supply small sums with regularity, this gentleman waswilling to encourage him and direct him to fresh effort.Mr. Abner Linthicum, of Vermont, had enjoyed severalsuccesses in connection with two or three singular claimswhich he had “put through” with the aid of genius combinedwith a peculiar order of executive ability. They hadnot been large claims, but he had “put them through”when other agents had declined to touch them. In fact,each one had been a claim which had been fought shy of,and one whose final settlement had been commented uponwith open derision or raised eyebrows.

“Yours is the kind of claim I like to take up,” he hadsaid to his client in their first interview; “but it’s thekind that’s got to be engineered carefully, and money isneeded to grease the wheels. But it’ll pay to grease them.”

It had needed money. Stamps had no large sums to give,but he could be bled by drops. He had changed his cheapboarding-place for a cheaper one, that he might be able tosave a few dollars a week; he had left the cheaper one for386one cheaper still for the same reason, and had at last campedin a bare room over a store, and lived on shreds of food costinga few cents a day, that he might still grease the wheels.Abner Linthicum was hard upon him, and was not in theleast touched by seeing his meagre little face grow sharperand his garments hang looser upon his small frame.

“You’ll fat on the herds,” he would say, with practicaljocularity, and Mr. Stamps grinned feebly, his thin lipsstretching themselves over hungry teeth.

The little man burned with the fever of his chase. Hesat in his bare room on the edge of his mattress—havingneither bedstead nor chairs nor tables—and his fingersclutched each other as he worked out plans and inventedarguments likely to be convincing to an ungrateful Government.He used to grow hot and cold over them.

“Ef Tom ’d hev gone in with me an’ helped me to workout that thar thing about Sheby, we mought hev madesuthin’ as would hev carried me through this,” he said tohimself more than once. He owed Tom a bitter grudgein a mild way. His bitterness was the bitterness of a littlerat baulked of cheese.

He had kept safely what he had found in the desertedcabin, but, as the years passed, he lost something of thehopes he had at first cherished. When he had seen Shebagrowing into a tall beauty he had calculated that her marketvalue was increasing. A handsome young woman who mightmarry well, might be willing to pay something to keep asecret quiet—if any practical person knew the secret andit was unpleasant. Well-to-do husbands did not want tohear their wives talked about. When Rupert De Willoughbyhad arrived, Mr. Stamps had had a moment of discouragement.387

“He’s gwine to fall in love with her,” he said, “but he’doughter bin wealthier. Ef the De Willoughbys was whatthey’d usedter be he’d be the very feller as ’ud pay forthings to be kept quiet. The De Willoughbys was allersproud an’ ’ristycratic, an’ mighty high-falutin’ ’bout theirwomen folk.”

When the subject of the De Willoughby claim wasbroached he fell into feverish excitement. The De Willoughbyshad a chance in a hundred of becoming richerthan they had ever been. He took his treasure from itshiding-place—sat turning it over, gnawing his finger-nailsand breathing fast. But treasure though he counted it, hegained no clue from it but the one he had spoken of toTom when he had cast his farewell remark to him as heclosed the door.

“Ef there’d hev been more,” he said. “A name ain’tmuch when there ain’t nothin’ to tack on to it. It wascuri’s enough, but it’d hev to be follered up an’ found out.Ef he was only what he ’lowed to be—’tain’t nothin’ tohide that a man’s wife dies an’ leaves a child. I don’tb’lieve thar wasn’t nothin’ to hide—but it’d hev to beproved—an’proved plain. It’s mighty aggravatin’.”

One night, seeing a crowd pouring into a hall where alecture was to be delivered, he had lingered about the entranceuntil the carriage containing the lecturer drove up.Here was something to be had for nothing, at all events—hecould have a look at the man who was making such a namefor himself. There must be something in a man who coulddemand so much a night for talking to people. He managedto get a place well to the front of the loitering crowd onthe pavement.

“That ain’t him,” said a bystander. “That’s Latimer.He’s always with him.”

The lecturer descended immediately after his companion,but Stamps, who was pushing past a man who had got infront of him, was displaying this eagerness, not thathe might see the hero of the hour, but that he mightlook squarely at the friend who had slightly turned hisface.

“Gosh!” ejaculated the little hoosier, a minute later.“I’d most swear to him.”

He was exasperatedly conscious that he could not quitehave sworn to him. The man he had seen nineteen yearsbefore had been dressed in clumsily made homespun; hehad worn his black hair long and his beard had been unshaven.Nineteen years were nineteen years, and the garband bearing of civilisation would make a baffling change inany man previously seen attired in homespun, and carryinghimself as an unsociable hoosier.

“But I’d most sw’ar to him—most.” Stamps wentthrough the streets muttering, “I’d mostswar!”

It was but a few days later that Latimer saw him standingon a street corner staring at him as he himself approached.It was his curious intentness which attracted Latimer. Hedid not recognise his face. He had not seen him more thanonce in the days so long gone by, and had then cast a mereabstracted glance at him. He did not know him again—thoughhis garments vaguely recalled months when he hadonly seen men clothed in jeans of blue, or copperas brown.He saw him again the next day, and again the next, andafter that he seemed to chance upon him so often that hecould not help observing and reflecting upon the eager scrutinyin his wrinkled countenance.389

“Do you see that man?” he remarked to Baird. “I comeupon him everywhere. Do you know him?”

“No. I thought it possible you did—or that he recognisedone of us—or wanted to ask some question.”

After his conversation with big Tom De Willoughby,Latimer heard from Baird the story of the herds and theirindefatigable claimant.

“He comes from the Cross-roads?” said Latimer. “Idon’t remember his face.”

“Do you think,” said Baird, rather slowly, “that hethinks he remembers yours?”

A week passed before Latimer encountered him again.On this occasion he was alone. Baird had gone South toDelisleville in the interests of the claim. He had unexpectedlyheard rumours of some valuable evidence whichmight be gathered in a special quarter at this particularmoment, and had set out upon the journey at a few hours’notice.

Stamps had passed two days and nights in torment. Hehad learned from Mr. Linthicum that his claim had reachedone of the critical points all claims must pass. More moneywas needed to grease the wheels that they might carry itpast the crisis safely. Stamps had been starving himself fordays and had gone without fire for weeks, but the wheelshad refused to budge for the sum he managed to produce.He was weak, and so feverish with anxiety and hungerthat his lips were cracked and his tongue dry to rasping.

“It’s all I kin scrape, Linthicum,” he said to that gentleman.“I kin get a few dollars more if Minty kin sell hercrop o’ corn an’ send me the money—but this is every centI kin give ye now. Won’t it donothin’?”

“No, it won’t,” answered the claim agent, with a final390sort of shrug. “We’re dealing with a business that’s gotto be handled well or it’ll all end in smoke.I can’t workon the driblets you’ve been bringing me—and, what’s more,I should be a fool to try.”

“But ye wouldn’t give it up!” cried Stamps, in a panic.“Ye couldn’t throw me over, Linthicum!”

“There’s no throwing over about it,” Linthicum said.“I shall have to give the thing up if I can’t keep it going.Money’sgot to be used over a claim like this. I have hadto ask men for a thousand dollars at a time—and the thingthey were working was easier to be done than this is.”

“A thousand dollars!” cried Stamps. He grew livid anda lump worked in his throat, as if he was going to cry. “Athousand dollars ’ud buy me and sell me twice over, Mr.Linthicum.”

“I’m not asking you for a thousand dollars yet,” saidLinthicum. “I may have to ask you for five hundred beforelong—but I’m not doing it now.”

“Five hundred!” gasped Stamps, and he sat down ina heap and dropped his damp forehead on his hands.

That night, as Latimer entered the house of an acquaintancewith whom he was going to spend the evening, hecaught sight of the, by this time, familiar figure on theopposite side of the street.

The night was cold and damp, and rain was falling whenthe door closed behind him. He heard it descending steadilythroughout the evening, and more than once the continuanceof the downpour was commented upon by somemember of the company. When the guests separated forthe night and Latimer turned into the street again, he hadscarcely walked five yards before hearing a cough; he casta glance over his shoulder and saw the small man in blue391jeans. The jeans were wet and water was dropping fromthe brim of the old felt hat. The idea which at once possessedhis mind was that for some mysterious reason bestknown to himself the wearer had been waiting for and wasfollowing him. What was it for? He turned about suddenlyand faced the person who seemed so unduly interestedin his actions.

This movement, being abrupt, rather upset Mr. Stamps’scalculations. He came to a standstill, looking surprisedand nervous.

“Thar ain’t no harm done,” he said. “I aimed to findout whar ye lived.”

“Have you been waiting for me to come out of thehouse?” asked Latimer, feeling some curiosity.

Stamps admitted that he had, the admission being somewhatreluctant, as if he felt it might commit him to something.Having so far betrayed himself, however, he drewsomething nearer, with a suggestion of stealthiness.

“Ye’re mighty like a man I once knowed,” he said.“Yer powerful like him. I never seed two men more likereach other.”

“Where did he live when you knew him?” Latimer enquired,the wretched, dank little figure suddenly assumingthe haunting air of something his eye must have rested onbefore.

“I seen him in North Ca’llina. He did not live thar—inthe way other folks did. He was jest stayin’. I won’tkeep ye standin’ in the rain,” insinuatingly. “I’ll jest walkalong by ye.”

Latimer walked on. This dragged him back again, asother things had done once or twice. He did not speak, but392strode on almost too rapidly for Stamps’s short legs. Theshort legs began to trot, and their owner to continue hisexplanations rather breathlessly.

“He warn’t livin’ thar same as other folks,” he said.“Thar was suthin’ curi’s about him. Nobody knowed nothin’about him, an’ nobody knew nothin’ about his wife.Now I come to think of it, nobody ever knowed his name—butme.”

“No,” with something verging on a chuckle, discreetlystrangled at its birth. “Neither him nor his wife wastellin’ things just then. They was layin’ mighty low. Shedied when her child was borned, an’ he lit out right awayan’ ain’t never been heern tell of since.”

Latimer said nothing. The rain began to fall more heavily,and Mr. Stamps trotted on.

“’Lowin’ for store clothes an’ agein’,” he continued, “Inever seen two fellers favour each other as you two do. An’his name bein’ the same as yourn, makes it curi’ser still.”

“I got wet to the skin long afore you come out thathouse where ye was,” said Mr. Stamps; “but I ’low to findout whar ye live.”

“I live about a quarter of a mile from here,” said Latimer.“The brick house with the bay windows, opposite thesquare. Number 89.”

“Ye won’t. It’s too late. Ain’t ye gwine to say nothin’,Mr. Latimer?”

“Sheby’s good-lookin’ gal,” Stamps said. “Tom’s donewell by her. Ef they get their claim through they’ll bepowerful rich. Young D’Willerby he’s mightily in lovewith her—an’ he wouldn’t want no talk.”

“There is the house I live in at present,” said Latimer,pointing with his umbrella. “We shall be there directly.”

“Ministers don’t want no talk neither,” proceededStamps. “Ef a minister had made a slip an’ tried hardto hide it an’ then hed it proved on him he wouldn’t likeit—an’ his church members wouldn’t like it—an’ his highclass friends. There’d be a heap er trouble.”

“Number 89,” said Latimer. “You see I was speakingthe truth. This is the gate; I am going in.”

His tone and method were so unsatisfactory and unmovedthat—remembering Abner Linthicum—Stamps became desperate.He clutched Latimer’s arm and held it.

“It’d be worth money fur him to git safe hold of themletters. Thar was two on ’em. I didn’t let on to Tom.I wasn’t gwine to let on to him till I found out he’d goin with me. Them as knowed the man they was writ by’ud be able to see a heap in ’em. They’d give him away.Ye’d better get hold of ’em. They’re worth five hundred.They’re yourn—ye wrote ’em yourself. Ye ain’t jest likehim—ye’rehim—I’ll sw’ar to ye!”

Latimer suddenly saw his mother’s mild New Englandcountenance, with its faded blue eyes. He remembered thehours he had spent telling her the details of the sunny daysin Italy, where Margery had lain smiling in the sunset. Helooked down the long wet street, the lamps gleaming on itsshining surface. He thought of Baird, who would not returnuntil the day on which he was to deliver a farewelllecture before leaving Washington. He recalled his promptness394of resource and readiness for action. If Baird were butin the room above in which the light burned he would tellhim! His mind seemed to vault over all else at this instant—torealise the thing which it had not reached at the firstshock. He turned on Stamps.

“You say there were letters?” he exclaimed, forgettinghis previous unresponsiveness.

“Two. Not long ’uns, an’ wrote keerful—without noname. But they say a heap. They was wrote when hehad to leave her.”

Latimer’s heart seemed physically to turn over in his side.He had never known she had had a line of handwriting inher possession. This must be some scrap of paper, some last,last words she clung to with such anguish of desperationthat she could not tear herself from them, and so had diedleaving them in their secret hiding-place. The thought wasa shock. The effort it cost him to regain his self-controlwas gigantic. But he recovered his outward calm.

“You had better go home and change your clothing,” hesaid, as coldly as he had spoken before. “You are nota young man or a strong one, and you may kill yourself.You are making a mistake about me; but if you will giveme your address I will see you again.”

“I thort ye would—mebbe,” said Stamps. “I thortmebbe ye would. They’re worth it.”

And he scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper witha stump of a pencil—producing both rapidly from hispocket—and thrusting it into Latimer’s hand, trotted awaycontentedly down the long wet street.

As he entered his rooms, Latimer glanced round atBaird’s empty chair and wished he had found him sittingin it. He walked over to it and sat down himself—simplybecause it was Baird’s chair and suggested his presence.Latimer knew how he would have turned to look at himas he came in, and that he would at once have known byinstinct that the old abyss had been re-opened.

But he knew what he was going to do. He must buythe little hoosier’s silence if it was to be bought. He shouldsee the letters. Through all those months she had hiddenthem. He could imagine with what terror. She could notbear to destroy them, and yet he knew there must havebeen weeks she did not dare to go near their hiding-place.They must have been concealed in some cranny of the cabin.How she must have shuddered with dread when he hadaccidentally approached the spot where they lay concealed.He recalled now that several times he had been wakenedfrom his sleep in the middle of the night by hearing hermoving about her room and sobbing. She had perhapscrept out of her bed in the darkness to find these scrapsof paper, to hold them in her hands, to crush them againsther heart, to cover them with piteous kisses, salt with scaldingtears.

On one such night he had risen, and, going to the closeddoor, had spoken to her through it, asking her if she was ill.396

“No, no, Lucien,” she had cried out, “but—but I amso lonely—so lonely.”

She had told him the next day that the sound of the windsoughing in the pines had kept her from sleep, and shehad got up because she could not bear to be still and listen.

He had known well what she meant by her desolate littleanswer to him. She had been a beloved thing always. Asa child her playmates had loved her, as a school-girl she hadwon the hearts of companions and teachers alike. Naturehad endowed her with the brightness and sweetness whichwin affection. The smile in her eyes wakened an answereven in the look of passing strangers. Suddenly all hadchanged. She was hidden in the darkness, crushed andshamed, an outcast and a pariah—a thing only to be keptout of sight. Sometimes, after she had been sitting lostin thought, Latimer had seen her look up bewildered, glanceat her little, deformed body, and sit white and trembling.

“Everything is different,” she panted out once. “It isas if all the world was black. It is—because—because I amblack!”

Latimer had made no effort to wring from her the nameshe had prayed to be allowed to hide; yet he had oftenwondered that in some hysteric moment it had not escapedher—that mere helpless anguish did not betray her intouttering some word or phrase which might have served asa clue. But this she had never done, and between themthere had been built a stone wall of silence. Yet, in spiteof it, he had known that her young heart was broken withlove for this nameless traitor—a love which would not die.He had seen it in the woe of her eyes, in the childlikelonging of her look when she sat and gazed out over thewild beauty of the land, thinking she was unobserved. In397his own soul there had been black, bitter hate, but in hersonly loneliness and pain.

There came back to him—and he sprang up and groundhis teeth, pacing the floor as he remembered it—a nightwhen she had wandered out alone in the starlight, and atlast he had followed her and found her—though she did notknow he was near—standing where the roof of pine-treesmade a darkness, and as he stood within four feet of herhe had heard her cry to the desolate stillness:

“If I could see you once! If I could see you once—ifI could touch you—if I could hear you speak—just once—justonce!”

And she had wailed it low—but as a starving child mightcry for bread. And he had turned and gone away, sick ofsoul, leaving her.

He had told this to Baird, and had seen the muscles ofhis face twitch and his eyes suddenly fill with tears. Hehad left his seat and crossed the room to conceal his emotion,and Latimer had known that he did not speak becausehe could not.

The letters were written with caution, Stamps had said,and the mention of names had been avoided in them; and,though he ground his teeth again as he thought of this, herealised that the knowledge brought by a name would beof no value to him. Long ago he had said to big Tom inthe cabin on the hillside: “If ever we meet face to faceknowing each other, I swear I will not spare him.” Sparehim? Spare him what? What vengeance could he workwhich would wipe out one hour of that past woe? None. Hehad grown sick to death in dwelling with the memories hecould not bury. He had been born cursed by the temperamentwhich cannot outlive. There are such. And it was the398temperament to which vengeance brings no relief. No; ifthey two met face to face, what words could be said—whatdeeds could be done? His forehead and hands grew dampwith cold sweat as he confronted the despair of it.

“Better that I should not know his name,” he cried.“Better that we should never meet. Pray God that he isdead; pray God the earth does not hold him.”

The man who had followed him had plainly but one purpose,which was the obtaining of money. He looked as ifhe needed it directly. He would go to him and pay himwhat he asked and get the papers. They must be in noother hands than his own. When he had them, Baird andhimself would destroy them together, and that would bethe end.

He encountered no difficulties when he went in searchof the address Stamps had given him. The room he haddirected him to was over a small store on the south sideof Pennsylvania Avenue. When he entered it he saw atonce that the man whose circumstances reduced him toliving in it must be one whose need of money was greatindeed. It was entirely unfurnished, except for a mattresslying on the floor, and Stamps was stretched upon it, coughingand feverish.

“Come in,” he said. “I knowed ye’d be here purty soon.Thar ain’t no chair to ax ye to set down in.”

“I do not want to sit,” said Latimer. “You are ill.You caught cold last night.”

“I s’pose I did, durn it,” answered Stamps. “I gotdrenched to the skin, an’ I hadn’t nothin’ dry to put onwhen I got home. But I’d seen ye—an’ told ye what I’d’lowed to tell ye.”

“They ain’t yere,” he answered; “an’ they won’t be yeretill I’ve got the pay fur ’em. Ef thar was names in ’emthey’d cost ye a heap more than five hundred dollars—an’they’d cost ye more anyhow ef I hadn’t a use for that fivehundred jest this particular time.”

“They’re in North Ca’lliny,” answered the little mountaineer,cheerfully. “An’ I’ve got a woman thar es’ll send’em when I want ’em.”

“Ye want ’em pretty bad, do ye?” said Stamps, lookingat him with a curiosity not untinged with dubiousness. Hewas sharp enough to realise that, upon the whole, his casewas not a strong one.

“I don’t want them for the reason you think I want themfor,” Latimer replied; his voice was cold and hard, and hismanner unpromisingly free from emotion or eagerness. “Iwant them for a reason of my own. As for your pretenceof recognising me as a man you have seen before, go outinto the street corners and say what you choose. My friendsknow how and where my life has been spent, and you areshrewd enough to know how far your word will stand againstmine. If you need the money now, you had better producewhat you have to sell.”400

“Try it,” answered Latimer, and turned as if to walkout of the room. He knew what he was dealing with, andsaw the fevered cupidity and fear in the little, shifting eyes.

Stamps struggled up into a sitting posture on his mattressand broke forth into coughs again.

Latimer paused where he stood and waited until the fitof coughing was over; and Stamps threw himself back exhausted.His shifty eyes burned uncannily, his physicaland mental fever were too much for him. Linthicum hadjust left him before Latimer arrived, and upon the productionof five hundred dollars rested the fate of the claim forthe herds.

“Ef ye’ll bring the money—cash down—next Saturday,”he said, “I’ll give ye the papers. I’ll hev ’em yere by then.When ye’ve got ’em,” with the agreeable grin again, “yekin go to yer friend’s far’well lecture easy in ye mind. Yewouldn’t be likely to go to many of ’em ef he knowed whatI could tell him. He’s powerful thick with Tom D’Willerbyand Sheby. They think a heap of him. Tom must hevguessed what I’ve guessed, but he don’t want no talk onaccounts o’ Sheby. Tom knows which side his bread’s buttered—heain’t nigh as big a fool as he looks.”

“Next Saturday?” was his sole response. “In themeantime, I should advise you to send for the doctor.”

During this week Judge Rutherford’s every hour wasfilled with action and excitement. He had not a friendor acquaintance in either House whom he did not seek outand labour with. He was to be seen in the lobby, in thecorridors, in committee-rooms, arguing and explaining,with sheafs of papers in his hands and bundles of documentsbulging out of his pockets. He walked down the avenueholding the arm of his latest capture, his trustworthy countenanceheated by his interest and anxiety, his hat thruston the back of his head. “There’s got to be justice done,”he would protest. “You see, justice has got to be done.There’s no other way out of it. And I’d swear there ain’ta man among you who doesn’t own up that it is justice, nowall this evidence has been brought together. The countrycouldn’t be responsible for throwing the thing over—eventill another session. Everything’s in black and white andsworn to and proved—and the papers Baird has sent inclinch the whole thing. Now just look here—” And hewould repeat his story and refer to his documents, untileven the indifferent succumbed through exhaustion, if notconviction.

He appeared at Dupont Circle two or three times a day,always fevered with delighted hope, always with some anecdoteto relate which prognosticated ultimate triumph. Ifhe could not find anyone else to talk to he seized upon MissBurford or Uncle Matt and poured forth his news to them.He wrote exultant letters to Jenny, the contents of which,being given to Barnesville, travelled at once to Talbot’s402Cross-roads and wakened it to exhilarated joyfulness, drawingcrowds to the Post-office and perceptibly increasing thetraffic on the roads from the mountains to that centre ofcivilised social intercourse.

“Tom’s a-gwine to win his claim,” it was said. “JudgeRutherford’s walkin’ it right through for him. Tom’ll beway ahead of the richest man in Hamlin. Sheby’ll be ahairest. Lordy! what a sight it’ll be to see ’em come back.Wonder whar they’ll build!”

In Washington it had begun to be admitted even by thereluctant that the fortunes of the De Willoughby claimseemed to have taken a turn. Members of substantial positiondiscussed it among themselves. It was a large claim,and therefore a serious one, but it had finally presenteditself upon an apparently solid foundation.

“And it is the member from the mountain districts, andthe old negro, and the popular minister who will have carriedit through if it passes,” said Senator Milner to his daughter.“It is a monumental thing at this crisis of affairs—a huge,unpopular claim on a resenting government carried throughby persons impelled solely by the most purely primitive anddisinterested of motives. An ingenuous county politician,fresh from his native wilds, works for it through sheer prehistoricaffection and neighbourliness; an old black man—outof a story-book—forges a powerful link of evidencefor mere faithful love’s sake; a man who is a minister ofthe gospel, a gentleman and above reproach, gives to itsservice all his interest, solely because he cherishes an affectionateadmiration for the claimants. Nobody has labouredwith any desire for return. Nobody has bargained for anything.Nobody would accept anything if it was offeredto them. The whole affair has been Arcadian.”403

“Yes,” answered the Senator; “I think it will. AndI confess I shall not advance any objections.”

“Tom,” he wheezed, hoarsely, “I heern tell you waslikely ter git yer claim through.”

“There are times when you can hear that about almostany claim,” answered Tom. “What I’m waiting for is tohear that I’ve got it through.”

“Hev ye ever said anything agen me, Tom—to any manwith inflooence? Hev ye, now? ’Twouldn’t be neighbourlyof ye if ye hed—an’ we both come from the Cross-roads—an’I allus give ye my custom. Ye won’t never goagen me, will ye, Tom?”

“I’ve never been asked any questions about you,” Tomsaid. “Look here, you had better go to some hospital andask to be taken in. What are you walking about the streetfor in that fix? You can scarcely breathe.”

“I’m a-gwine to walk about until Saturday,” answeredStamps, with a grin. “I’m lookin’ arter my own claim—an’Abner Linthicum. Arter Saturday I’ll lie up for aspell.”

Stamps stood and watched him walk away, and thenturned into a drug-store and bought a cheap bottle of cough404mixture. He was passing through the early stages of pneumonia,and was almost too weak to walk, but he had gonefrom place to place that morning like a machine. Linthicumhad driven him. So long as he was employed in badgeringother men he was not hanging about the agent’s office.Linthicum was not anxious that he should be seen theretoo frequently. After the payment of the five hundreddollars there would be no more to be wrung from him, andhe could be dropped. He could be told that it was uselessto push the claim further. Until the five hundred wassecured, however, he must be kept busy. Consequently,he went from one man to the other until he could walkno more. Then he crawled back to his room and sent a noteto Latimer.

“I cayn’t git the papers tel Saturday afternoon. Ef yebring the money about seven ye ken hev them. ’Tain’tno use comin’ no earlier.”

Latimer found the communication when he returned tohis rooms in the evening. He had been out on businessconnected with Baird’s final lecture. It was to be a specialevent, and was delivered in response to a general request.A building of larger dimensions than the hall previouslyused had been engaged. The demand for seats had beencontinuously increasing. The newspaper and social discussionof the prospects of the De Willoughby claim had addedto the interest in Baird. This brilliant and popular man,this charming and gifted fellow, had felt such a generousdesire to assist the claimants that he had gone South in theinterest of their fortunes. He had been detained in Delislevilleand could barely return in time to appear beforehis audience.

The enthusiasm and eagerness were immense. Every405man who had not heard him felt he must hear him now;everyone who had heard him was moved by the wish tobe of his audience again. Latimer had been besieged onall sides, and, after a hard day, had come home fagged andworn. But he was not worn only by business interviews,newspaper people, and applicants for seats which could notbe obtained. He was worn by his thoughts of the past days,by his lack of Baird’s presence and his desire for his return.His influence was always a controlling and supporting one.Latimer felt less morbid and more sane when they weretogether.

This same night Senator Milner and Judge Rutherfordcalled in company at the house near the Circle. WhenUncle Matt opened the door for them Judge Rutherfordseized his hand and shook it vigorously. The Judge was inthe mood to shake hands with everybody.

“Uncle Matt,” he said, “we’re going to get it through,and in a week’s time you’ll be a rich man’s servant.”

“Do ye think we is gwine t’rough, ma’am?” he said.“D’ye think we is? Seems like we was the Isrilites a-crossin’the Red Sea, an’ the fust of us is jest steppin’ on de sho’.Lordy, Miss Burford, ma’am, I don’t know how I’se gwineto stan’ dat great day when weis th’ough, shore enuff.Wash‘n’ton city ain’t gwine be big enuff to hol’ me.”

“It will be a great day, Uncle Matthew,” replied MissBurford, with elated decorum of manner. “The De Willoughbymansion restored to its former elegance. Mr.Thomas De Willoughby the possessor of wealth, and thetwo young people—” She bridled a little, gently, andtouched her eyes with her handkerchief with a slight cough.406

“When Marse De Courcy an’ Miss Delia Vanuxem wasmarried, dar was people from fo’ counties at de infar,” saidMatt. “De fust woman what I was married to, she donede cookin’.”

Senator Milner was shaking hands with big Tom upstairs.He regarded him with interest, remembering the morninghe had evaded an interview with him. The little roomwas interesting; the two beautiful young people suggestedthe atmosphere of a fairy story.

“You are on the verge of huge good fortune, I think,Mr. De Willoughby,” he said. “I felt that I should liketo come with Rutherford to tell you that all is going verywell with your claim. Members favour it whose expressionof opinion is an enormous weight in the balance. JudgeRutherford is going to speak for you—and so am I.”

Judge Rutherford shook Tom’s hand rather more vigorouslythan he had shaken Matt’s. “I wish to the LordI was an orator, Tom,” he said. “If I can’t make themlisten to me this time I believe I shall blow my brains out.But, what with Williams, Atkinson, and Baird, we’ve gotthings that are pretty convincing, and somehow I swearthe claim has begun to be popular.”

When the two men had gone the little room was for afew moments very still. Each person in it was under theinfluence of curiously strong emotion. Anxious waitingcannot find itself upon the brink of great fortune and remainunmoved. Some papers with calculations worked outin them lay upon the table, and big Tom sat looking atthem silently. Sheba stood a few feet away from him, hercheeks flushed, light breaths coming quickly through herparted lips. Rupert looked at her as youth and love mustlook at love and youth.407

“Uncle Tom,” he said, at last, “are you thinking ofwhat we shall do if we find ourselves millionaires?”

“Neither am I,” said Rupert. He drew nearer to Sheba.“It would be a strange thing to waken and find ourselvesowners of a fortune,” he said. “We may waken to find itso—in a few days. But there is always a chance that thingsmay fail one. I was thinking of what we should do if—welose everything.”

“We have been across the mountain,” she said. “Wecame together—and we will go back together. Will yougo back with us, Rupert?”

“That is what I was thinking,” he cried; “that it doesnot matter whether we win the claim or lose it. The houseis gone and the store is gone, but we can add a room tothe cabin in Blair’s Hollow—we can do it ourselves—and Iwill learn to plough.”

He dropped on one knee like a young knight and kissedher little, warm, soft palm.

“If I can take care of you and Uncle Tom, Sheba,” hesaid, “will you marry me?”

“Yes, I will marry you,” she answered. “We three canbe happy together—and there will always be the springand the summer and the winter.”

“May she marry me, Uncle Tom,” Rupert asked, “eventhough we begin life like Adam and Eve?”408

“She shall marry you the day we go back to the mountains,”said Tom. “I always thought Adam and Eve wouldhave had a pretty fair show—if they had not left the Gardenof Eden behind them when they began the world for themselves.You won’t have left it behind you. You’ll find itin the immediate vicinity of Talbot’s Cross-roads.”

The facts in detail which the Reverend John Baird hadjourneyed to Delisle County in the hope of being able togather, he had been successful in gaining practical possessionof. Having personal charm, grace in stating a case,and many resources both of ability and manner, he hadthe power to attract even the prejudiced, and finally to wintheir interest and sympathies. He had seen and conversedwith people who could have been reached in no ordinaryway, and having met them had been capable of managingeven their prejudices and bitterness of spirit. The resulthad been the accumulation of useful and convincing evidencein favour of the De Willoughbys, though he had inmore than one instance gained it from persons who had beenfirm in their intention to give no evidence at all. Thisevidence had been forwarded to Washington as it had beencollected, and when Baird returned to the Capital it waswith the knowledge that his efforts had more than probablyput the final touches to the work which would gain theday for the claimants.

His train was rather late, and as it drew up before theplatform he glanced at his watch in some anxiety. Hisaudience for the lecture must already have begun to turntheir faces toward the hall in which the evening’s entertainmentwas to be held. He had hoped to reach his journey’send half an hour earlier. He had wanted a few minuteswith Latimer, whose presence near him had becomeso much a part of his existence, that after an absence he felt410he had lacked him. He took a carriage at the depot anddrove quickly to their rooms. They were to leave them ina day or two and return to Willowfield. Already some oftheir possessions had been packed up. The sitting-roomstruck him as looking a little bare as he entered it.

“Yes, sir. He was called out by a message. He left anote for you on the desk.”

“Everything is prepared for you. The audience will bethe best you have had at any time. I have been sent for bythe man Stamps. He is ill of pneumonia and wishes to deliversome letters to me. I will be with you before you goon the platform.”

Since he had left Washington, Baird had heard fromLatimer but once and then but briefly. He had felt thathis dark mood was upon him, and this reference to lettersrecalled the fact.

“Stamps is the little man with the cattle claim,” he commentedto himself. “He comes from the neighbourhoodof the Cross-roads. What letters could he have to handover?”

Stamps had spent a sleepless night. He could not sleepbecause his last interview with Linthicum had driven himhard, even though he had been able to promise him therequired five hundred dollars; he also could not sleep becausethe air of the city had been full of talk about the411promising outlook of the De Willoughby claim. Over thereports he had heard, he had raged almost with tears.

“The Dwillerbys is ristycrats,” he had said. “They’reristycrats, an’ it gives ’em a pull even if they was rebels an’Southerners. A pore man ez works hard an’ ain’t nothin’but a honest farmer, an’ a sound Union man ain’t got noshow. Ef I’d been a ristycrat I could hev got inflooence ezhed hev pulled wires fur me. But I hain’t nothin’ but myloyal Union principles. I ain’t no ristycrat, an’ I neveraimed to be none.”

The bitterness of his nervous envy would have kept himawake if he had had no other reason for being disturbed,but most of all he was sleepless, because he was desperatelyill and in danger he knew nothing of. Cold and weeks ofsemi-starvation, anxiety, excitement, and drenched garmentshad done the little man to death, and he lay ragingwith fever and stabbed with pain at each indrawn breath,tossing and gasping and burning, but thinking only ofLinthicum and the herds and the scraps of paper whichwere to bring him five hundred dollars. He was physicallywretched, but even while he was racked with agonised fitsof coughing and prostrated with pain it did not occur tohim to think that he was in danger. He was too whollyabsorbed in other thoughts. The only danger he recognisedwas the danger that there might be some failure inhis plans—that Linthicum might give him up—that theparson might back out of his bargain, realising that afterall letters unsigned save by a man’s Christian name werenot substantial evidence. Perhaps he would not come atall; perhaps he would leave the city; perhaps if he camehe would refuse to give more than half or quarter the sumasked. Then Linthicum would throw him over—he knew412Linthicum would throw him over. He uttered a small crylike a tortured cat.

“I know he’ll do it,” he said. “I seen it in his eye yesterday,when he let out on me an’ said he was a-gettin’ sickof the business. I shed hev kept my mouth shut. I’d saidtoo much an’ it made him mad. He’ll throw me over Mondaymornin’ ef I don’t take him the money on Sunday.”

He ate nothing all through the day but lay waiting forthe passing of the hours. He had calculated as to whichpost would bring the letter from Minty. He had writtento tell her of the hiding-place in which he had kept the bitsof paper safe and dry through all the years. She was toenclose them in a stout envelope and send them to him.

Through the long, dragging day he lay alone burning,gasping, fighting for his breath in the attacks of coughingwhich seemed to tear his lungs asunder. There was a clockin a room below whose striking he could hear each hour.Between each time it struck he felt as if weeks elapsed.Sometimes it was months. He had begun to be light-headedand to think queer things. Once or twice he hearda man talking in a croaking wail, and after a few minutesrealised that it was himself, and that he did not know whathe had said, though he knew he had been arguing withLinthicum, who was proving to him that his claim was toorotten to have a ghost of a chance. By the time the afternoonpost arrived he was semi-delirious and did not knowhow it happened that he at last found himself holdingMinty’s letter in his hand. He laughed hysterically whenhe opened it. It was all right. There were the two yellowedsheets of paper—small sheets, written close, and in a peculiarhand. He had often studied the handwriting, and believedif he had seen it again he should know it. It was413small but strong and characteristic, though that was notwhat he had called it.

“Ef I’d hed more time an’ could hev worked it outmore—an’ got him to write suthin’ down—I could hev hedmore of a hold,” he said, plaintively, “but Linthicumwouldn’t give me no time.”

The post arrived earlier than he had expected it, andthis gave him time to lie and fret and listen again for thestriking of the clock in the room downstairs. The waitingbecame too long, and as his fever increased he becameinsanely impatient and could not restrain himself. To lieand listen for his visitor’s footsteps upon the stairs—to lieuntil seven o’clock—if he did not come till then, would bemore than he could endure. That would give him too longto think over what Linthicum would do if the whole sumwere not forthcoming—to think of the reasons why theparson might make up his mind to treat the letters as ifthey were worthless. He lay and gnawed his finger-nailsanew.

“I wouldn’t give nothin’ for ’em ef I was in his place,”he muttered. “Ef thar’d been anythin’ in ’em that provedanythin’ I should hev used ’em long sence. But then I’ma business man an’ he’s a parson, an’ doesn’t know nothin’about the laws. But he might go to some man—say a manlike Linthicum—who could put him up to things. GoodLord!” in a new panic, “he mayn’t come at all. Hemight jest stay away.”

He became so overwrought by this agonising possibilitythat instead of listening for the striking of the clock, hebegan to listen for the sound of some passing footstep—thefootstep of someone passing by chance who might be sentto the parson with a note. With intolerable effort and suffering414he managed to drag himself up and get hold of apiece of paper and a pencil to write the following lines:

“The letters hes come. You’d as well come an’ get ’em.Others will pay for ’em ef ye don’t want ’em yerself.”

His writing of the last sentence cheered his spirits. Itwas a support to his small, ignorant cunning. “He’llthink someone else is biddin’ agen him,” he said. “Efthere was two of ’em biddin’, I could get most anythin’ Iaxed.”

After he had put the communication in an envelope hedragged himself to the door almost bent double by thestabbing pain in his side. Once there he sat down on thefloor to listen for footsteps.

“It’s hard work this yere,” he panted, shivering withcold in spite of his fever, “but it’s better than a-lyin’ thardoin’ nothin’.”

At length he heard steps. They were the running,stamping feet of a boy who whistled as he came.

Stamps opened the door and whistled himself—a whistleof summons and appeal. The boy, who was on his waywith a message to another room, hesitated a minute andthen came forward, staring at the sight of the little, undressed,shivering man with his head thrust into the passage.

“Want ye to carry this yere letter to a man,” Stamps gotout hoarsely. “I’ll give ye a quarter. Will ye do it?”

“Yes.” And he took both note and money, still staringat the abnormal object before him.

When the messenger arrived Latimer was reading theletters which had arrived by the last delivery. One of themwas from Baird, announcing the hour of his return to the415city. Latimer held it in his hand when Stamps’s communicationwas brought to him.

It was not long before Stamps heard his slow approachsounding upon the bare wooden stairs. He mounted thesteps deliberately because he was thinking. He was thinkingas he had thought on his way through the streets. Ina few minutes he should be holding in his hand letterswritten by the man who had been Margery’s murderer—theletters she had hidden and clung to and sobbed over in theblackness of her nights. And they had been written twentyyears ago, and Margery had changed to dust on the hillsideunder the pines. And nothing could be undone andnothing softened. But for the sake of the little old womanending her days quietly in Willowfield—and for the sakeof Margery’s memory—yes, he wanted to save the child’smemory—but for these things there would be no use inmaking any effort to secure the papers. Yet he was consciousof a dread of the moment when he should take theminto his hand.

“I thought mebbe ye’d made up yer mind to let theother feller hev them,” he said. “Hev ye brought themoney in bills?”

Latimer stood and looked down at him. “Do you knowhow ill you are?” he said.

“Wal, I guess I kin feel a right smart—but I don’t keerso’s things comes my way. Hev ye got the money with ye?”

“Thet’s far an’ squar,” he said. “D’ye wanter knowwhar I found ’em? Tom Dwillerby never knowed I hedmore than a envelope—an’ I tuk care not to tell him thename that was writ on it. Ye was mighty smart never tolet no one know yer name; I don’t know how you done it,’ceptin’ that ye kept so much to yerselves.”

Latimer remained silent, merely standing and lettinghim talk, as he seemed to have a feverish, half-delirioustendency to do. He lay plucking at the scanty bed-coveringand chuckling.

“’Twas five years arter the child was born,” he went on.“I was ridin’ through Blair’s Holler an’ it come to me suddento go in an’ hev a look round keerful. I looked keerful—mightykeerful—an’ at last I went on my hands an’knees an’ crawled round, an’ there was a hole between thelogs, an’ I seen a bit of white—I couldn’t hev seen it ef Ihadn’t been crawlin’ an’ looked up. An’ I dug it out. Ithed been hid mighty secret.” He put his hand under hiswretched pillow. “Give me the money,” he wheezed.“When ye lay it in my hand I’ll pass the envelope over toye. Count it out first.”

Latimer counted the bills. This was the moment.Twenty years gone by—and nothing could be changed. Heput the money on the bed.

Stamps withdrew his hand from under the pillow. Astout, ill-directed envelope was in its grasp and he passedit over to Latimer. He was shivering and beginning tochoke a little, but he grinned.417

“I reckin’ it’s all right,” he said. “D’ye want to read’em now?”

“No,” Latimer answered, and putting them in his breast-pocketwalked out of the room.

He passed down the stairs and into the avenue where thelamps were lighted and which wore its usual somewhat desertedevening air. He walked along quietly for some minutes.He did not quite know where he was going. Havingleft a line for Baird explaining his absence, he had time tospare. If he wished to be alone, he could be so until the hourof the beginning of the lecture. For certain reasons it wouldbe necessary that he should see Baird before he went uponthe platform. Yes, he must be alone. His mood requiredit. He would go somewhere and look at the two yellowedletters written twenty years ago. He did not know why itwas that he felt he must look at them, but he knew he must.They would satisfy no curiosity if he felt it, and he hadnone. Perhaps it was the old tragic tender feeling forMargery which impelled him. Perhaps he unconsciouslylonged to read that this man had loved her—that she hadnot given her life for nothing—that the story had notbeen one of common caprice and common treachery. Ashe walked his varied thoughts surged through his brain disconnectedly.Every now and then he involuntarily put hishand to his breast-pocket to feel the envelope. Once therecrossed his mind a memory of the woman whose boy haddied and who dare not let herself recall him, and so be sweptback into the black maelstrom of woe. To-night, withthese things on his breast, it was not twenty years since hehad heard Margery’s dying cries—it was last night—lastnight—and the odour of the pine-trees was in his nostrils—thesough of their boughs in his ears.418

He stopped near the entrance to the grounds of theSmithsonian Institute. They were as secluded as a privatepark at this time, but here and there was a seat and a light.He turned in and found his way to the most retired partwhere he could find these things—a bench to sit down on,a light to aid him to read. He heard his own breathing ashe sat down; he felt the heavy, rapid pulsations of hisheart, as he took the papers from his breast his hand wasshaking, he could not hold it still. He took out morepapers than the envelope Stamps had given him. He drewforth with this the letter which had arrived from Baird,and which he had been reading when the messenger arrived.He had abstractedly put it in his pocket. It fellfrom his shaking hand upon the ground at his feet, andhe let it lie there, forgetful of its existence.

He read them through once—twice—three times—four.Then he began again. He had read them a dozen timesbefore he closed them. He had read them word by word,poring over each character, each turn of phrase, as a manmight pore over an enigma or a document written in aforeign language of which he only knew stray words. Ifhis hands had shaken at first, he had not turned a pagebefore his whole body was shaking and his palms, his forehead,his hair were damp with cold dew. He had utteredone sharp, convulsed exclamation like a suffocated cry—thenhe went on reading—reading—reading—and shudderingas he read. They were not long letters, but after hehad read them once he understood them, and each time heread them again he understood them better. Yes, he could419translate them. They were the farewells of a man tossed bya whirlwind of passionate remorseful grief. The child hadbeen loved—her very purity had been loved while she hadbeen destroyed and deceived. The writer poured forthheart-sick longing and heart-sick remorse. He had not atfirst meant to conceal from her that he was not a free man—thenhe had lost control over his very being—and he hadlost his soul. When she had discovered the truth and hadnot even reproached him but had stood silent—without aword—and gazed at him with her childish, agonised, blue-flowereyes—he had known that if men had souls his wasdamned. There was no pardon—he could ask none—pardonwould not undo—death itself would not undo what hehad done. “Margery! Margery! Oh! child—God hear meif there is God to hear—I loved you—I love you—Deathwill not undo that either.”

He was going abroad to join his wife. He spoke of theship he sailed on. Latimer knew its name and who hadsailed in it. In the second letter he besought her to lethim see and speak one word to her—but knew she wouldnot grant his prayer. He had seen her in the street, andhad not dared to approach. “I did not fear what a manmight fear from other women,” he wrote. “I felt that itmight kill you, suddenly to see me near when you couldnot escape.”

And after he had read it a third time Latimer realised aghastly truth. The man who wrote had gone away unknowingof the blackness of the tragedy he had left behind.He plainly had not known the secret Death itselfhad helped to hide. Perhaps when he had gone Margeryherself had not known the worst.

Latimer, having finished his reading, rested his head on420his hand for a dull moment and stared down at the letterlying upon the ground at his feet—the letter he had droppedas he took out the others. He felt as if he had not strengthor inclination to pick it up—he had passed through a blackstorm which had swept away from him the power to feelmore than a dull, heavy, physical prostration.

But after a few minutes he stooped and picked the letterup. He laid it on his knee by the other two and sat gazingagain.

“He did not know,” he said, in a colourless voice. “Itold him. He heard it first from me when I told him howshe died.”

The handwriting of the letters was Baird’s—every characterand word and phrase were his—Baird was the manwho had written them.

The street in which the lecture hall stood began to wearthe air of being a centre of interest some time before thedoors of the building were opened. People who had notbeen able to obtain reserved seats wished to arrive early.The lectures which had begun by being popular had endedby being fashionable. At the outset an audience of sober,religious tendencies had attended them, but after the firstone had been delivered other elements had presented themselves.There had been a sprinkling of serious scientificmen, a prominent politician or so, some society womenwhose faces and toilettes were well-known and lavishly describedin the newspapers. On this last night the audiencewas largely of the fashionable political world. Carriagesdrove up one after another and deposited well-dressed personswho might have been expected that night to appearat certain brilliant social functions, and who had come tohear “Repentance” instead.

“He has always had good audiences,” said a member ofthe Committee of Arrangement, “but he has never hadone like this—in Washington at least. There is the Secretaryof State with his wife and daughter. I believe thePresident is to be here. He has awakened an enormous interest.The house will be literally crammed. They arefilling the aisle with seats already.”

Baird was in the small retiring-room which had beenarranged for his convenience. His journey had somewhat422fatigued him, and he was in the physical and mental conditionto feel glad that this lecture was to be the last of theseries. He was going back to Willowfield, though he wasnot to remain there. He had received a call from an importantchurch in New York and had accepted it. He wasendeavouring to make arrangements that Latimer could benear him. On his return this evening he had found aletter he had been expecting. It referred to Latimer, andhe was anxious to talk it over with him. He wished hewould come in, and felt a little restless over his delay,though he knew they would have time to say but few wordsto each other before it was time for the lecture to begin.He walked up and down the room looking down at thegreen carpet and thinking, his thoughts wandering vaguelyto the little pursuant of the herd claim and the letters hehad wanted to deliver. He smiled faintly, rememberingthe small frame in the over-large clothes and the bucoliccountenance with its over-sharpness of expression.

“They are beginning to turn people away from thedoors,” he said. “Half the Cabinet is here—I never sawsuch an audience.”

As he went away smiling, someone passed him in enteringthe room. Baird, who was smiling also, changed hisexpression of courteous appreciation to a smile of greeting,for the man who had entered was Latimer.

“I am glad you have come,” he began to say. “I wantedat least a word with you before I went on.”

Then his smile died out, leaving blank amazement whicha breath’s space later was alarmed questioning. He recalledlater how for a second he stood and stared. Latimer’s423face was white and damp with sweat. Its lines were drawnand sunken deep. His eyes were fixed on the man beforehim with something which had a ghastly resemblance toan unsteady smile which was not a smile at all. He lookedas if illness—or death—or madness had struck him. Hedid not seem a sane man, and yet a stillness so deadly wasexpressed by his whole being that it seemed to fill the small,neat, business-like green-room.

Latimer’s face did not alter in a line. He fumbledstiffly in his breast-pocket and held out some pieces ofyellowed letter-paper—this being done stiffly, too. Hespoke in a hoarse whisper. It seemed to search every cornerof the room and echo there.

“See!” he said. “These are two letters. A man wrotethem to a poor, half-mad child twenty years ago.”

The door opened, and the member of the committeelooked in again, radiant with exultation.

“The audience waiting in such breathless silence thatyou might hear a pin drop. Two thousand of them, ifthere’s one. Ten minutes to eight.”

The door closed again and he stood looking at Latimer’srigid hand and the papers.

“They were written to Margery,” went on Latimer.“Stamps found them in a chink in the logs. She had hiddenthem there that she might take them out and sob overand kiss them. I used to hear her in the middle of thenight.”

Baird snatched them from his hand. He fell into a chairnear the table and dropped his face upon the yellowed424fragments, pressing them against his lips with awful sobbingsounds, as if he would wrest from them the kisses thelong-dead girl had left there.

“Don’t say ‘God!’” said Latimer. “When she was dying,in an agony of fear, she said it. Not that word! Another!”

“You wrote them,” he said. “They are written in yourhand—in your words—I should know them anywhere. Youmay deny it. I could prove nothing. I do not want toprove anything. Deny it if you will.”

Baird rose unsteadily. The papers were clutched in hishand. His face was marred by the unnaturalness of a man’stears.

“Do you think I shall deny it?” he answered. “It istrue. I have sat and listened to your talk of her andthought I should go quite mad. You have told me of hertortures, and I have listened. I did not know—surely shedid not know herself—of the child—when I went away. Itis no use saying to you—how should it be?—that I lovedher—that I was frenzied by my love of her innocent sweetness!”

“No, there is no use,” answered Latimer, in a voice actuallyvoid of emotion, “but I daresay it is true.”

“There is no use in calling myself by any of the namesinvented for the men who bring about such tragedies. Theyare true of some men perhaps, but they were not true ofme. I don’t know what was true of me. Something worsethan has ever been put into words perhaps, for I loved herand I have loved her for twenty years. I would have givenup my career—my life, anything she had asked!”425

“It seemed to fill her with the frantic terror of a child.I dare not approach her. I think she thought she wouldbe struck dead by Heaven. Great God! how I understoodyour story of her prayers. And it was I—it was I!”

“You have crucified me!” he cried out. “Let that comfortyou. You have crucified me by her side, that I mightsee her die—that I might hear her low little piteous voice—thatI might see her throes and terrors. And I love her—andremember every look of her loving child’s eyes—everycurve and quiver of her mouth. Through all the years Ihave been crucified, knowing I had earned all that I felt.”

Latimer moved across the room, putting the table betweenthem. He went and stood by the mantel. A murmurof impatient applause from the audience came throughthe door.

“You loved her,” he said, standing with his hand holdingsomething in his breast. “And I loved you. She wasthe one brightness of my life when I was a boy and youwere its one brightness when I was a man. You gave mea reason for living. I am not the kind of man to be myown reason. I needn’t tell you what you have been to me.You were the one man on earth I dared to confess to. Iknew you would understand and that you knew what pitywas.”

Baird groaned aloud. He wiped the sweat from his foreheadwith his handkerchief as he listened.

“I knew you were the one man I could trust. I couldtrust you. I could confide in you, and talk to you aboutMargery. One day you said to me that you had learned tolove her and that we might have been brothers.”426

“When I was left free I had but one thought,” Bairdsaid, “to return to her—to atone, so far as atonementcould be—to pray of her upon my knees. But she wasdead—she was dead!”

“Yes, she was dead, and I had no one left to talk toabout her. You were my one comfort and support andfriend.”

He drew his hand out of his breast. Baird started andthen stood quite quiet. The hand held a pistol.

“Are you going to kill me?” he said. “You know Iasked you that once before.”

“No,” said Latimer, “I am not going to kill you. I amgoing to kill the man who loved you, and found you hisreason for living. It’s all done with!”

“No! no!” shrieked Baird, and he hurled himself acrossthe table like a madman. “No! You are not! No, Latimer!No! God! No!”

They were struggling together—Baird hung to his armand tried to drag the pistol from his grasp. But it was nouse; Latimer’s long, ill-hung limbs were the stronger. Hisfixed face did not change, but he wrenched himself freeand flung Baird across the room. He set the pistol againsthis heart and pulled the trigger. He gave something likea leap and fell down.

The door opened for the returning member of the committeeand the impatient applause of the audience camethrough it almost a roar.

Baird was struggling to rise as if his fall had stunnedhim. Latimer was stretched at full length, quite dead.

Tom walked up the staircase pondering deeply. The DeWilloughby claim was before the House. Judge Rutherfordwas making his great speech, and the chief claimantmight have been expected to be sitting breathless in one ofthe galleries. But he was not. He was going to Baird,who had sent for him, and Baird was sitting in the room inwhich Latimer lay dead with a bullet in his heart. He hadbeen sitting there for hours, and when Tom had arrivedat the house he had been told that Baird had asked that heshould be taken to him in the death-chamber. He wassitting on a chair by the bed on which Latimer was stretched,rigid with a still face, which looked like a mask of yellowwax, appearing above the exceeding freshness of the turned-downlinen sheet. Baird did not move as Tom entered, butcontinued to gaze at the dread thing with dull, droopingeyes. Tom went to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.He saw the man was stupefied.

“There’s nothing to say, Baird,” he said after a silence,“when it comes to this.”

“There is something for me to say,” Baird answered,very quietly. “I want to say it before him, while he liesthere. I wonder if he will hear?”

“It would not do any good to anyone if he did,” Bairdsaid. “The blackness of it all lies in that—that he wouldnot be helped, she would not be helped—I should not.”

Baird got up at once, stiffly and unsteadily. He stoodupright, the lithe-limbed slender form, which was so muchadmired upon the platform, held rigidly. His face lookedlined and haggard.

“No other man shall feel an affection for me—I thinkyou are beginning to feel an affection for me—under afalse impression. That man loved me for long years, andI loved him. I think I helped him to something that wasas near happiness as his nature would allow him to feel.God knows I owed it to him. I was one of those who repentedtoo late. That is why I have preached of repentance.I have done it with a secret, frenzied hope.”

“Because he had loved and trusted me for half a lifetime—becauseI was the one human creature to whom hehad confided the tragedy of his life—knowing he wouldbe sure of comprehension and sympathy. It was to me hepoured forth the story of that poor child. You saw herdie. She was his sister. And I——”

Tom turned and looked at the face of the dead man andthen, slowly, to the face of the living one, who stood beforehim.

Tom turned to the dead man again. He put his big,warm hand with a curiously suggestive movement—amovement somehow suggesting protection—upon the stiff,clasped fingers.

“No, poor fellow!” he said, as if speaking to him. “You—no,429no, there was nothing but this—for you. God havemercy on us.”

“No,” said Baird, “there was nothing else for him. Iknow that. Everything was whirled away. I had hourslast night thinking there is nothing else for me. Perhapsthere is not. But first I shall take his body back to hismother. I must tell her lies. This is the result of an accident.That is what I shall tell her. She is a little oldwoman who will not live long. I must take care of her—andlet her talk to me about her son who loved me—andher daughter.”

“A man does not live—for fifteen years—side by sidewith another—that other loving him wholly—and see theblackness of his own deed laid bare—and hear again andagain of the woe he has wrought—he does not live so inpeace.”

“I tell you—” wildly—“I tell you there have been hours—ashe has talked to me of her—when the cold sweat hasstood upon my flesh.”

“In all the cruelty of it,” he cried, “there seems to havebeen one human pitying soul. It was yours. You weretender to her in those last hours. You were merciful—youheld her hand when she died.”

“Yes,” said Tom, in a somewhat husky voice, since heremembered it so well, “she was frightened. Her littlehand was cold. I took it in mine and told her not to beafraid.”

Baird flung out his own hand with a movement of passionatefeeling—then let it fall at his side.430

“Good Lord, man!” he said, after it, “am I the man tojudge another?I’ve made nothing of life.”

“You have done no creature a wrong,” Baird said. “Andyou have helped some to happiness.”

“Well,” admitted Big Tom, “perhaps that’s true. ButI’ve been a lumbering failure myself. I’ve just judgmentenough now to know that there’s nothing a man can sayabout a thing like this—nothing—and just sense enoughnot to try to say it.”

“If you go back to North Carolina,” asked Baird, “mayI come to see you—and to see her? She need never know.”

“I shouldn’t want her to know,” Tom answered, “butyou may come. We shall go back, and I intend to let thosetwo young ones set up a Garden of Eden of their own. Itwill be a good thing to look on at. Yes, you may come.”

“That is mercifulness,” said Baird, and this time whenhe put out his hand he did not withdraw it, and Tom gaveit a strong, sober clasp which expressed more than oneemotion.

When Tom returned to the little house near DupontCircle, Uncle Matt wore a rigidly repressed air as he openedthe door, and Miss Burford stood in the hall as if waitingfor something. Her ringlets were shaken by a light tremor.

“We have either won the claim this afternoon or lost it,”Tom said to himself, having glanced at both of them andexchanged the usual greeting.

Judge Rutherford was striding up and down the sitting-room,but it was Sheba who was deputed to tell the news.

She did it in a little scene which reminded him of herchildhood. She drew him to a chair and sat down on hisknee, clasping both slim, tender arms round his neck, tearssuddenly rushing into her eyes.

“You and Rupert are rich men, Uncle Tom, darling,”she said. “The claim has passed. You are rich. Youneed never be troubled about mortgages again.”

He was conscious of a tremendous shock of relief. Hefolded her in his arms as if she had been a baby.

The unobtrusive funeral cortége had turned the cornerof Bank Street and disappeared from view almost an hourago. In the front room of the house in which had livedthe man just carried to his grave, the gentle old womanwho had been his mother sat and looked with patheticpatience at Miss Amory Starkweather as the rough windsof the New England early spring rushed up the emptythoroughfare and whirled through the yet unleafed trees.Miss Amory had remained after the other people had goneaway, and she was listening to the wind, too.

“We are both old women,” she had said. “We haveboth lived long enough to have passed through afternoonslike this more than once before. Howsoever bad other hoursmay be, it seems to me that these are always the worst.”

“Just after—everything—has been taken away,” Mrs.Latimer said now; “the house seems so empty. Faith,”tremulously, “even Faith can’t help you not to feel thateverything has gone—such a long, long way off.”

She did not wipe away the tear that fell on her cheek.She looked very small and meek in her deep mourning. Shepresented to Miss Amory’s imagination the figure of a lovablechild grown old without having lost its child temperament.

“But I must not complain,” she went on, with an effortto smile at Miss Amory’s ugly old intelligently sympatheticcountenance. “It must have been all over in a second,and he could have felt no pain at all. Death by accident433is always an awful shock to those left behind; but it mustscarcely be like death to—those who go. He was quitewell; he had just bought the pistol and took it out toshow to Mr. Baird. Mr. Baird himself did not understandhow it happened.”

“It is nearly always so—that no one quite sees howit is done,” Miss Amory answered. “Do not let yourselfthink of it.”

She was sitting quite near to Mrs. Latimer, and she leanedforward and put her hand over the cold, little, shrivelledone lying on the lap of the mourning-dress.

“Though it was so sudden,” she said, “it was an endnot unlike Margery’s—the slipping out of life without realisingthat the last hour had come.”

She looked up at the portrait on the wall—the portraitof the bright girl-face. Her own face lighted into a smile.

“It is so strange to think that they are together again,”she said. “They will have so much to tell each other.”

She got up herself and went and stood before the picture.Mrs. Latimer rose and came and stood beside her.

“Mr. Baird has been with me every day,” she said. “Hehas been like a son to me.”

A carriage drew up before the house, and, as the occupantgot out, both women turned to look.

Then came the ring at the front door, the footsteps inthe passage, and Baird came into the room. He was haggardand looked broken and old, but his manner was very434gentle when he went to the little old woman and tookher hands.

“I think he scarcely knew he had so many friends atJanney’s Mills,” he said. “A great many of them came.When I turned away the earth was covered with flowers.”

He drew her to a chair and sat by her. She put herwhite head on his arm and cried.

“He was always so sad,” she said. “He thought peoplenever cared for him. But he was good—he was good. Ifelt sure they must love him a little. It will be better forhim—now.”

Miss Amory spoke from her place before the fire, whereshe stood rigidly, with a baffled look on her face. Hervoice was low and hoarse.

The little mother lifted her wet face, still clinging toBaird’s arm as she looked up at him.

“And I have it to remember,” she sobbed, “that you—youwere his friend, and that for years you made himhappier than he had ever been. He said you gave hima reason for living.”

“Somehow,” she said, “you seemed even to comfort himfor Margery. He seemed to bear it better after he knewyou. I shall not feel as if they were quite gone away fromme while I can talk to you about them. You will sparean hour now and then to come and sit with me?” Shelooked round the plain, respectable little room with a quietfinality. “I am too old and tired to live long,” she added.

It was Baird who kissed her hand now, with a fervour435almost passion. Miss Amory started at sight of his action,and at the sound of the voice in which he spoke.

“Talk to me as you would have talked to him,” he said.“Think of me as you would have thought of him. Letme—in God’s name, let me do what there is left me!”

Miss Amory’s carriage had waited before the gate, andwhen she went out to it Baird went with her.

After he had put her into it he stood a moment on thepavement and looked at her.

But he took the seat opposite to her and leaned back,shutting his eyes while Miss Amory’s rested upon him.The life and beauty which had been such ever-present characteristicsof his personality seemed to have left him neverto return. Miss Amory’s old nerves were strung taut. Shehad passed through many phases of feeling with regard tohim as the years had gone by. During those years shehad believed that she knew a hidden thing of him knownby no other person. She had felt herself a sort of silentdetective in the form of an astute old New England gentlewoman.She had abhorred and horribly pitied him.She had the clear judicial mind which must inevitably seethe tragic pitifulness of things. She had thought too muchto be able to indulge in the primitive luxury of unqualifiedcondemnation. As she watched him to-day during theirdrive through the streets, she realised that she beheld akind of suffering not coming under the head of any ordinaryclassification. It was a hopeless, ghastly thing, a436breaking up of life, a tearing loose of all the cords to whicha man might anchor his existence.

When they reached the house and entered the parlour,she went to her chair and sat down—and waited. Sheknew she was waiting, and believed she knew what for.In a vague way she had always felt that an hour like thiswould come to them. They were somehow curiously akin.Baird began to walk to and fro. His lips were trembling.Presently he turned towards the rigid figure in the chairand stood still.

“Yes, I will,” he said. “I must. I suppose—there isa sort of hysteric luxury in—confession. He did it becausethere was nothing else left. The foundations of his worldhad been torn from under his feet. Everything was gone.”His voice broke into a savage cry. “Oh! in one short lifetime—theblack misery a man can bring about!”

“For years—years,” he said, “he hid a secret.”Miss Amory bent forward. She felt she must help hima little—for pity’s sake.

“When a woman has spent a long life alone, thinking—thinking,”she answered, “she has had time to learn toobserve and to work at problems. The day she fainted inthe street and I took her home in my carriage, I beganto fear—to guess. She was not only a girl who was ill—she437was a child who was beingkilled with some horror;she was heart-breaking. I used to go and see her. Inthe end I knew.”

There was a long pause. She knew he had told her allin the one sentence—all she had guessed.

“She did not know I knew,” she went on, presently.“She believed no one knew. Oh, I tell you again, she washeart-breaking! She did not know that there were wildmoments when she dropped words that could be linkedinto facts and formed into a chain.”

“Had you formed it,” he asked, “when you wrote andtold me she had died?”

“Yes. It had led me to you—to nothing more. I feltdeath had saved her from what would have been worse. Itseemed as if—the blackest devil—would be glad to know.”

“I am the blackest devil, perhaps,” he said, with stonyhelplessness, “but when I received your letter I was grovellingon my knees praying that I might get back to her—andatone—as far as a black devil could.”

“And she wasdead,” said Miss Amory, wringing herhands together on her lap; “dead—dead.”

She stopped suddenly and turned on him. “He killedhimself,” she cried, “because he found out that it wasyou!”

“Yes. I was the one man he loved—he had told hissecret to me—tome!—the black devil. Now—now I mustgo to his mother, day after day, and be her son—becauseI was his friend—and knew his love for Margery—and ofher sweetness—and her happy, peaceful death. He usedto talk to me for hours; she—poor, tender soul—will talk438to me again—of Margery—Margery—Margery—and of Lucien,whose one happiness I was.”

And he turned on his chair and laid his face on hisfolded arms and sobbed like a woman.

The springtime sunshine had been smiling upon Talbot’sCross-roads all the day. It was not hot, but warm, and itsbeauty was added to by the little soft winds which passedthrough the branches of the blossoming apple and peartrees and shook the fragrance from them. The brown earthwas sweet and odorous, as it had been on the Sunday morningSheba had knelt and kissed it, and the garden hadcovered itself, as then, with hyacinths and daffodils andwhite narcissus.

During the last weeks the Cross-roads had existed insomething like a state of delirium. People rode in fromthe mountains and returned to their homes after hoursof conversation, semi-stupefied with enjoyment. TomD’Willerby had won his claims. After months of mystifieddiscouragement, in which the Cross-roads seemed tohave lost him in a vague and distant darkness, life hadseemed to begin again. Nobody was sufficiently analyticalof mind to realise in what measure big Tom D’Willerby hadbeen the centre of the community, which was scattered overmiles of mountain road and wood and clearing. But whenhe had disappeared many things seemed to melt away withhim. In fact, a large, shrewd humanity was missing.

“I’ll be doggered,” had been a remark of Mr. Doty’sin the autumn, “ef crops hes done es well sence he went.”

There had been endless talk of the villanous tendenciesof Government officials, and of the tricks played whose440end was to defraud honest and long-suffering claimants oftheir rights. There had even been dark hours when ithad seemed possible that the vitiating effect of Washingtonlife might cause deterioration in the character of even themost upright. Could Tom himself stand it, and what wouldbe its effect on Sheba?

But when the outlook was the most inauspicious,Fortune’s wheel had swept round once and all waschanged.

A letter brought the news—a simple enough letter fromTom himself. The claim was won. They were comingback to Hamlin County, he and Sheba and Rupert DeWilloughby. Sheba and Rupert were to be married andspend the first weeks of their honeymoon on the side ofthe mountain which had enclosed the world the childSheba had first known.

On this particular day every man and woman who hadknown and played with her appeared at the Cross-roads.There had not been a large number of them perhaps, butgathered together at and about the Post-office and aboutthe house and garden, they formed a crowd, as crowdsare counted in scattered communities. They embodied excitementenough to have exhilarated a much larger bodyof people. Half a dozen women had been helping AuntMornin for days. The house wore a gala air, and thecellar was stored with offerings of cake and home-madeluxuries. The garden was a mass of radiant scented bloomof spring. Mis’ Doty sat at the open window of the kitchenand, looking out on nodding daffodils, apple-blossom, andpink peach-flower warmed in the sun, actually chuckledas she joyfully sniffled the air.

“The way them things smells,” she said, “an’ the hummin’441o’ them bees goin’ about as ef the world hadn’t nothin’but flowers an’ honey in it, seems like it was all jest gotup for them two young uns. Lordy, I do declar’, it’s aplum sight.”

“That bin a heap got up for ’em, seems like,” saidMolly Hollister, smiling at the nearest apple-tree as if itwere a particular friend. “Fust off, they’re dead in lovewith each other, an’ we uns all knows how that makespeople feel—even in the dead o’ winter, an’ when theyain’t a penny in their pockets; they’re as good-heartedas they kin be—an’ es hansum’—an’ they’re rich, an’ theywas married this mornin’, an’ they’re comin’ home withTom D’Willerby to a place an’ folks that loves ’em—an’the very country an’ the things that grows seems as ifthey was dressed out for a weddin’. An’ it’s Sheba asTom took me to look at lyin’ in her little old woodencradle in the room behind the store.”

She laughed, as she said it, a little hysteric laugh, withsuddenly moist eyes. She was an emotional creature.

The road had been watched steadily for many hours beforeany arrival could have been legitimately expected. Itgave restless interest—something to do. At noon one ofMolly Hollister’s boys came running breathlessly up theroad, waving his hat.

“They’re a-comin’!” he shouted. “They’re a-comin’!They’re in a fine carriage.”

“Let Tom D’Willerby alone for havin’ the finest teamin Hamlin,” said Mr. Doty, with a neighbourly grin.

Almost immediately the carriage was to be seen. Thehorses lifted their feet high, and stepped at a pace whichwas felt worthy of the occasion. Uncle Matt drove. Rupertand Sheba sat side by side. They looked very young442and beautiful, and rather shy. They had only been marrieda few hours, and were bewildered by the new radiance ofthings. Big Tom humanely endeavoured not to look atthem, but found it difficult to avert his eyes for any lengthof time. There was that about them which drew his gazeback in spite of himself.

“That’s old Tom!” he heard familiar voices proclaim,as they drew near the Post-office. “Howdy,Tom! Howdy, Sheby! Wish ye much joy! Wish ye muchjoy!”

Then the horses stopped, and the crowd of long-knownfaces surged near and were all about the carriage. Theclamour of the greeting voices, the grasping of one handafter another seemed to Sheba and Rupert like somethinghappening in a dream. They were too far away fromearth to feel it real just now, though it was part of thehappiness of things—like the sunshine and the soft windand the look in Tom’s eyes, when, amid hand-shakesand congratulations, and welcoming laughter, he himselflaughed back in his old way.

“Ye look jest like ye used ter, Tom—jest like ye usedter,” cried Jake Doty. “Ye hain’t changed a durned bit!”

How did the day pass? Who knows? What does it matter?It was full of strange beauty, and strange happiness,and strange life for two young souls at least. People cameand went, congratulating, wondering, rejoicing. Talbot’sCross-roads felt that it had vicariously come into the possessionof wealth and dignity of position. Among themany visitors, Mrs. Stamps rode up on a clay-bank mare.She was attired in the black calico riding-skirt and sunbonnet443which represented the mourning garb of the mountainrelict.

“I’m a widder,” she said to big Tom, in a tone not unresigned.“Ye got yer claim through, but Stamps hadn’tno influence, an’ he was took off by pneumony. Ketchedcold runnin’ to Linthicum, I guess. His landlady was ahonest enough critter. She found a roll o’ five hundreddollars hid in his bed when she went to lay him out, an’she sent it back to me. Lord knows whar he got it from—Idon’t. But it come in mighty handy.”

By sunset the welcoming crowd had broken up andmelted away into the mountains. Horses and ox-waggonshad been mounted and ridden or driven homeward. ThePost-office was closed; no one was to be seen in the porch.No one was to be seen anywhere except in the garden amongthe blossoms where Rupert and Sheba walked under thefragrance of the trees, talking to each other in low, softlybroken words.

Tom sat in the porch and watched the moon rise ina sea of silver. The scents the wind wafted to him, theoccasional sound of a far-off night-bird, the rustle of theleaves brought things back to him—things he had felt inhis youth. There had been nights like this in the dayswhen he had been a big, clumsy young fellow, wild withhopeless love for Delia Vanuxem. On such nights the airhad been full of this night breath of flowers, the birds hadstirred in their nests with just such sounds, the moon hadmounted, as it did to-night, higher and higher in a skyit thrilled a man’s soul to lift his face to.

“Yes, it was all like this,” he said, leaning back andclasping his big hands behind his head. “Just like this!And those two out there are living it over again, only they’ve444been fairly treated, and they are trembling with the joyof it. They’re pretty safe,” he ended. “They’re prettysafe. They’ve had a fair show.”

Rupert and Sheba walked slowly side by side. They sawand felt everything. If a bird stirred with a sleepy sound,they stopped to listen and smiled tremulously at each other.More than once Sheba knelt down and hid her face amongthe flowers, kissing them. Her arms were full of whiteblossoms. She and Rupert had made white garlands forher hair and waist, such as she had worn the night he hadfirst seen her standing on her little balcony. When Rupertheld her to his side, the scent from their crushed petalsfilled the air they breathed. The early night was at itsstillest and fairest, and the moonlight seemed to flood allthe world, when Sheba stopped and looked up, speakingsoftly:

“Shall we go now?” she said. “The moon will be shiningdown between the pines. It will be so quiet.”

They had planned weeks ago the things they were goingto do. They were going to say good-night to the smallmound at Blair’s Hollow.

When they left their horses at the foot of the hill eventhe pines could not look darkly under the fair light. Thebalmy air passing through their branches made a soundas if it was hushing a child to sleep.

The little mound lay in the soft brightness of clear moonbeams.Sheba knelt beside it and began to lay her bridalblossoms on the grass-covered earth. Rupert stood andwatched her. His heart beat with a reverent, rapturoustremor. She looked like a young angel.

She bent down and laid her cheek upon the grass; her445arm was thrown out as if she clasped something to hergirl’s breast. She spoke in a whisper—thrilled with love.“I am happy,” she said. “I am happy. Oh, do you hear?Do you hear?”

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CHAPTER XXXVIII

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CHAPTER XL

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